


Coffee, Wine, Textbooks

by shaniacbergara



Series: Coffee, Wine, and Textbooks-Verse [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Professors, M/M, Praise Kink, Professors, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-09-18
Packaged: 2020-07-11 11:41:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 41,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19927492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shaniacbergara/pseuds/shaniacbergara
Summary: They're professors. They're ridiculous. What more could you want?





	1. Returning

Aziraphale stretched, his elbows cracking as he reached over his head. The semester was beginning in just over 2 weeks, and it was hard to view it as anything other than the end of times. He loved the summer, plenty of time to spend alone with his books, researching and writing. In several days, fall courses would begin and he’d be bombarded with students pestering him with questions and invading his office. There was really only one benefit to the semester beginning again, it had been some time since he’d seen his office neighbor. Dr. Anthony Crowley had been in Rome this summer, and he’d rather missed the good natured banter they maintained. He was meant to have returned by now, though perhaps he was getting his affairs in order at home before returning to the stresses of academia. Aziraphale considered giving him a call, they had exchanged numbers several years ago, but after a moment of hemming and hawing he thought better of it.

Several miles away, in Crowley’s flat, he paced up and down the length of his kitchen. This was his favorite time of year, there wasn’t any need to be so distressed, but here he was. After all, in a little over two weeks he’d be teaching again, would be working with students as they puzzled over history, helping them with their research and their many, many questions. He loathed the summer. He’d spent it researching and couldn’t wait to return to the hustle and bustle of campus. There was only one downside to returning to the university. He had been pining over Aziraphale, his office neighbor, for the past 10 years, nearly since the second they’d met. The man had told him a story about how he’d skipped his first tenure review opportunity in order to make a point to the dean.   
“And...what point was that exactly?” He’d asked, eyes wide.  
“Do you know, I actually don’t recall.”   
Crowley had been appalled and thrilled, and that had been it. He’d fallen hard and fast. And stupidly, since Aziraphale had never seemed to realize any of Crowley’s advances. He’d eventually decided to give up on the whole matter altogether, but then Aziraphale would do something, give him some sliver of hope, so he kept the ache deep in his chest.   
Crowley leaned against the counter and sighed heavily. There was nothing for it. If he didn’t get started moving his things into the office soon he wouldn’t have enough time to make sure everything was how he preferred it before the start of classes. He might as well bite the bullet now.

Aziraphale was alerted to Crowley’s return to campus by quite a great deal of shouting from the office next to his. It was muffled, but decidedly aggressive.  
“...and if any of you even THINK about browning or wilting I will donate you to the botany club so fast your ROOTS WILL QUAKE, MAKE NO MISTAKE.” Aziraphale chuckled, placing a bookmark in his copy of The Importance of Being Earnest. His heart swelled, he’d missed Crowley. He did a quick look around the corridor before exiting his office, and was pleased to find it very much deserted. He shut his door quietly behind him before knocking on Crowley’s door. Crowley had already taped a sign to the front of his door, it read “abandon hope ye who enter here,” then below it, the Italian, “lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch’intrate” Aziraphale often suspected that there wasn’t a language that Crowley didn’t speak at least a little. Crowley’s door was thrown open, and Aziraphale smiled. Crowley stood tall in the doorway, he was all corners, all angles. Crowley grins, almost despite himself.  
“Well, come in then.” He throws the door open wider, but Aziraphale stops short when he sees the boxes, still not unpacked, and the poor plants lying helter skelter on Crowley’s windowsill.   
“Perhaps we’d better use my office.” He suggested, unable to contain his beaming smile. Crowley whipped around, black dress shoes squeaking on the tiled floor.  
“Why’s that?” He asked, eyes wide behind his hornrimmed spectacles.  
“My dear, you don’t seem to have any room on these chairs quite yet.” This was true. Crowley’s own high-backed, red cushioned chair was covered with newspaper clippings. The desk was littered with books, one of the chairs was knocked over, the other groaning under the weight of hefty tomes.   
“We could fix that!” He insisted, reaching down to right the chair that had fallen.   
“Come, now. I’ve just put a pot of coffee on.” Aziraphale turned on his heel and marched out of Crowley’s office. Crowley grumbled a bit, saw fit to turn the unnecessary chair over once again, and followed him out. Aziraphale’s office was already set up exactly the way he wanted it. He had spent most of the summer in it, popping back and forth between this sanctuary of his and the library just a few blocks away. Crowley stopped in the threshold to admire it. The walls were lined with bookshelves, and fantastically ancient books sat upon them. Aziraphale was a collector, and he prided himself on his first editions. The desk sat in the perfect spot so that Aziraphale could enjoy the early afternoon sunlight without getting too warm. He’d even put down a plush tan rug to cover up the terribly offensive tile floor. The coffee pot was indeed full, and Crowley was overwhelmed momentarily by the smell. Old books, and coffee, and that fantastic cologne of Aziraphale’s. It took all of Crowley’s steel nerves to remain where he was, instead of following his instincts and fleeing to his own chaotic office to get it in order.   
“Wow.” Was all he managed. Brilliant. Aziraphale sat in his soft armchair and grinned at him. “Been busy, have you?”  
“Not all of us packed everything up to go to Rome, dear boy.” Crowley decidedly did not blush. Aziraphale gestured for him to sit, and Crowley, gathering his wits, did so. “Do you still take it the same way?” Crowley choked on the air.  
“I’m sorry?” He demanded, eyes shooting up to meet Aziraphale’s.  
“Your coffee? Black, two sugars?” Crowley willed his pulse to slow and nodded.  
It started the way it always did, with a catch up. Crowley told Aziraphale about Rome, about his visits to ancient sites and his various mind numbingly boring dinners with mind numbingly boring people. He told him about the gelato and the pasta and the wine, all of which he knew Aziraphale would appreciate. Aziraphale told him about his reading, about his writing, both of which were going very well, thank you very much. He told him how he lamented the quiet without Crowley next door screaming at his plants or throwing his tennis ball against their shared wall, and Crowley gripped his coffee mug’s handle so hard his hand shook. 

After what seemed like a very short while, Crowley leaned back, his head lolling, his legs resting on Aziraphale’s desk. “I ought to get some work done.” He admitted, looking at Aziraphale over the top of his glasses. Aziraphale chuckled, then turned his desk clock, a small antique thing, around to face Crowley. Crowley leapt to his feet. “7 oclock? Angel, why didn’t you tell me?!” Crowley blushed at the pet name that had slipped from his lips, but Aziraphale looked rather pleased with himself.   
“I thought you knew! It’s been too long since we had a proper chat, Crowley. Those emails didn’t do you justice at all.” Crowley scoffed.   
“My office is a wreck.” He countered, shaking his head.   
“Well, what if I buy you dinner and tomorrow I’ll help you fix your office? It’s the least I can do.” Crowley grumbled something indistinguishable. “I’m sorry, could you use your words please?” Now that simply wasn’t fair, in Crowley’s opinion. It was a favorite phrase of Aziraphale’s, but it did funny things to Crowley’s stomach.  
“Fine.” Crowley grunted.   
It was going to be a long semester.


	2. Offices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> oh hey, please send me your most aggressive feedback. I'm over @ isoundmybarbaricyawp on tumblr if you'd like to yell at me or anything.

Crowley reached over to slam his open palm down on the alarm clock currently blaring in his ears. Shouldn’t have stayed out so late, he thought blearily as he blinked away the last vestiges of sleep from his eyes. After dinner last night, he’d needed a drink. Aziraphale had invited him back to his place for a nightcap, but Crowley had refused, instead speeding directly to the local pub where he promptly imbibed a truly remarkable amount of whiskey. How was he meant to cope? Aziraphale, reaching across the table to grasp Crowley’s forearm. Aziraphale, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he laughed at one of Crowley’s self deprecating jokes. Aziraphale, eyebrows shooting up towards his hair line as he insisted that Crowley was much kinder, smarter, lovelier than he gave himself credit for. Aziraphale, white curls ruffling in the breeze as he stepped out onto the high street. 

Crowley groaned and rolled over, shoving his face into his pillow. He reached up his hand and patted along his bedside table until he found his glasses, leaned up and pushed them onto his face. He slid his bare legs off the edge of the bed and set them down onto the cool floor of his bedroom, and sat up. He scrubbed a hand through his already messy hair, crossing his room to wrap his black robe around his thin frame. He stood in the doorway, for a moment, mentally stealing himself.  
“Coffee.” He decided, finally. He passed through his corridor and into his kitchen, his pot was set to brew at the exact moment his morning alarm went off, meaning there would never be too many obstacles between him and his first cup of coffee. He grabbed his mug, a gift from Aziraphale from their first holiday together. It was deep red, and had an outline of devil horns on the front. He added the appropriate number of sugars, two, like always, and sipped it standing up. His morning coffee was a luxury, and one he would never skip over, even if he was running late or had an early appointment. It was a necessity for him. After all, his days were long and full of pining. He earnestly wished for the days when he could be distracted by his delighted students, but for now he’d have to manage.

After coffee, it was simple. Get dressed, dark jeans, the tightest collared shirts that could conceivably be called “decent” on him, fun socks, and his pointy-toed dress shoes. His hair? Well, he hadn’t brushed it in years, and “sticking all the way up” seemed to be a good look for him. A thorough tooth-brushing, his bag over his shoulder, and he was off for the day.   
One of Crowley’s most prized possessions was his car, a vintage Bentley that ran absolutely beautiful. He was a bit of a speed demon in the thing, one of his many vices was driving too fast. One of his students had remarked that the car made Crowley look like Cruella De Ville, and Crowley quite liked that comparison. He had a certain image he needed to maintain, after all. The car roared to a start and Crowley thundered down his street, nearly taking the turn onto the main road on two wheels as he sped along. Within minutes he was at the University, windows down, Queen blasting from his aux cord, the one modern update he allowed to his beautiful car. He pulled into his parking spot, and sighed. Aziraphale was already here, his perfectly respectable sedan was in its usual spot. 

Aziraphale’s morning had been lovely. He woke up on time, as he always did, around 5 in the morning. He slipped on his soft slippers and his warm, comfortable housecoat, and padded downstairs to his kitchen. He liked his tea hot, but not too hot so as to burn his sensitive lips, and he liked it rather on the sweet side, with honey, not sugar. He took his tea back up to bed with him, and spent a good deal of the morning reading in bed. When his mug was mournfully empty, he dressed for the day, a rather smart shirt with a cream colored waistcoat, his favorite shoes with the double buckle. His hair he left unattended, the curls would fall however they liked anyway. He returned down to his kitchen, and fixed himself breakfast.

There were few pleasures Aziraphale delighted in more than a good breakfast. He never skipped it. Today, he was particularly craving eggs. He cracked two in a pan with a good deal of butter, and put some toast down. They were ready nearly simultaneously, and Aziraphale used the now brown butter to drench his toast, and settled down happily to eat. When he was through, he cleaned his plate before washing his hands and moisturizing them. He went through the rest of his ablutions with similar calm, brushing his teeth and applying his cologne. By the time all was said and done, he had just enough time to get to the university before the start of business.

He drove leisurely down the streets. He lived a little ways away from the university, where the bustling town transformed into a more rural look, but he didn’t mind the drive. It was peaceful, full of rolling hills and beautiful views, the sun shining gloriously down on the farms and country stores as the day began. He hummed to himself as he drove, and arrived exactly ten minutes before nine o’clock, just as he preferred.

He climbed the stairs up to his second floor office and threw open the curtains to let the daylight stream in through the windows. As he did so, he heard a screech of tires and looked down toward the parking lot. Sure enough, Crowley skidded to a halt in his terrifying black car. Aziraphale smiled fondly before turning back to his desk. He set his coffee to brew and brushed off his desk a bit. By the time he heard the tell-tale slam of Crowley’s door, the pot was ready. He poured two mugs, set Crowley’s up how he preferred, and headed next door. Crowley’s door had indeed been slammed, but it had swung back open.

“Good morning.” Aziraphale chimed, as Crowley threw his bag down onto his chair. Crowley jumped about a foot in the air.

“Jesus, scare me half to death why don’t you?” Crowley mumbled, turning swiftly to look at Aziraphale. Aziraphale ignored him, picking up the still overturned chair and setting the two mugs down on Crowley’s crowded desk.

“I trust you had a pleasant evening?” He asked, politely, raising his eyebrows at Crowley over the rim of his mug. Crowley made a noncommittal noise deep in his throat.

“You?” He responded, accepting the mug steaming away on his desk without verbal comment, but he was able to lift his eyes and offer up a half smile. With that, Aziraphale was off, describing a bidding war he’d gotten involved in for a particularly rare Oscar Wilde book. Crowley listened, his headache and his bad temper easing away as he heard the man prattle along. 

“But, my dear, it would have been so helpful to have you there. I do wish you’d have taken me up on my offer for another drink. Perhaps then you wouldn’t have quite such a bad headache.” He gently scolded Crowley as Crowley finished his cup of coffee.

“Wh-I don-hey! I don’t have a headache.” Crowley protested, setting the mug down with slightly more force than he’d intended.

“Whatever you say.” Aziraphale smirked, Crowley’s cheeks warmed. Aziraphale continued to appraise him as Crowley continued to sputter. “Might I say, too, how lovely your tan looks on you? Rome clearly seems to have done you quite a bit of good.” That shut Crowley up promptly.

“Let’s..just...get this office fixed. Shall we?” Crowley insisted, suddenly very interested in the chaotic state of the room. Aziraphale hopped out of his chair.

“Certainly!”

They spent the next several hours organizing. The plants Crowley brought were scattered around the small office, making sure to account for those that needed more light. His bookshelves were restocked with his favorite historic works, his chairs righted, and his cushions placed carefully upon them. Soon, his office looked very much like a rainforest, with plants everywhere you looked. Well, if a rainforest had quite a good deal of books and filing cabinets, anyway. Throughout the process, Crowley and Aziraphale kept up a near constant conversation, remarking on the changes that had taken place to the campus over the long summer break, and running through ideas for lessons and assignments for their students. Aziraphale seemed much more engaged when the topic of conversation shifted from their new students to where they ought to go for lunch, however. 

“I can’t imagine that you actually hate your students, Aziraphale.” Crowley stated, finally collapsing in his chair and surveying his office, pleased. “They’re all literature nerds just desperate for some of your know-how.”

“I certainly don’t hate anyone, Crowley.” Aziraphale rebutted, looking affronted. “They’re just always asking questions that they could figure out for themselves, always looking for approval.” Crowley rolled his eyes. “You can’t tell me you actually enjoy answering student emails all day long.”

“We’ve had this conversation dozens of times now.” Crowley reminded him. “I’ll tell you again-any question a student has is a question worth consideration.”

“When you’ve had students ask you ‘Who wrote Jane Eyre’ a million times you’ll be singing a different tune. You’re just young and idealistic.”

“Angel, I’ve only been doing this for two years less than you.” Crowley remarked.

“Like I said. Young. And idealistic.” Crowley chuckled. 

“Very well, you’ve had your giggle. I’m going back to my own office where I won’t be pestered whatsoever.” Aziraphale huffed, Crowley, never one to let Aziraphale go without much of a fight, despite his better judgement, let him get two steps down the corridor for poking his head out after him.

“Would you like to get lunch?” He inquired, smiling his broadest and most innocent smile. Aziraphale turned, trying to suppress his own grin. 

“I thought you’d never ask.”


	3. Syllabi and Tennis Balls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> come yell at me about this over @isoundmybarbaricyawp on tumblr.

Aziraphale had rather been enjoying their new routine. Coffee in Crowley’s office when he arrived, bickering over details of papers as they sent their work back and forth to one another, lunch, usually Aziraphale’s choice of venue, more coffee, eventually settling in around 3 pm and recognizing no more work was getting done that day, arguing over dinner, then a nightcap together. He couldn’t help but feel comfortable, though as the same time he had a sneaking suspicion that they were racing towards something different.  
And then it happened.

Classes began again.

How could he have forgotten that this was actually going to happen at some point? All of a sudden, it’s Monday, and the campus is swarming with students who had all moved back in over the weekend. He’s horrified, disgusted. And...oh dear. He supposed they’d want a syllabus. He pulled into his parking spot, later than he’d like and with a certain air of panic. He took the stairs two at a time, and was thoroughly out of breath by the time he reached his office. He sat behind his desk and opened up a word document, frantically typing away.

Shakespeare’s Tragedies ENG3256  
Dr. Aziraphale Will  
Office Hours:  
Email:

This course is designed to be a thorough examination of the tragedies of William Shakespeare. While you may be familiar with the tragedies on a basic level, this course will challenge you to look deeper at…

Aziraphale was so absorbed in his panicked typing that he didn’t even hear the tell tale screech of tires out in the staff parking lot, and he didn’t notice Crowley going past his office and into his own. 

Crowley had practically leapt out of bed that morning, eagerly awaiting getting back in the classroom, back to the students. He had sent out his syllabi the previous week, and had printed out a few copies just in case there were any stragglers to the class. HIS 1100 was an introductory course about Modern European History, and was used by many students to fulfill a gened requirement, but was often attended by history majors as well. HIS2240 was a higher level course about Central European History, all those Fredericks and Williams and Fredrick Wilhelms tended to scare off the non-history majors in the group. HIS 2722 was his History of Judaism course, and, admittedly, was his favorite. That was what he was getting geared up for later that day. HIS1100 began promptly at 10 am. The Jewish history class was later, at 3 pm. The Central Europe course was later in the week. A weekly seminar course that ran from 5 pm to 8:30 on Wednesdays.

He had fallen into such a blissful routine over the last several days, his hours were measured by Aziraphale coming and going. It was so...comfortable. Though it did little to ease his pining, he’d take anything he could get. He hadn’t expected today to be any different, in fact, he thoroughly expected Aziraphale to storm through his office door ready to rant and rave about students. So when he got to his office, he set up shop and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Where was Aziraphale? He couldn’t even smell coffee from next door. He knew he was in there, he could hear him typing out something on his ancient computer. Maybe he’d had a breakthrough with his writing? No, he would have told Crowley about it if that had been the case. 

Within five minutes Crowley was fretting. He ought to just let it go, Azirphale couldn’t be expected to have coffee with him every morning. It wasn’t like they were properly friends, just office neighbors. He ought to let it go. He was going to let it go.

Within ten minutes, Crowley had his tennis ball in hand, and hurled it without temperance at the wall he and Aziraphale shared. It hit with a loud thunk, and he heard a clatter and a curse from the other office, and while he was momentarily distracted, the tennis ball returned and thwacked him directly in the forehead.

“Fuck.” He muttered, rushing to catch the tennis ball before it careened into one of the plants. He swiped it from the air just in time, and as it landed in his hand his door banged open, Aziraphale stood in the doorway and surveyed the scene.

“My dear boy, are you quite alright?” Aziraphale asked gently. Crowley’s head snapped up, and he felt his cheeks warm. 

“Course.” He said, aiming for nonchalance and decidedly missing. He threw himself in his high backed chair and attempted to assume his usual careless slump. “Why wouldn’t I be?” 

“Crowley.” Aziraphale was more firm. Crowley felt his blush creeping up the back of his neck. “What on earth happened to your forehead.” Crowley looked into the dark screen of his desktop, sure enough, there was a large red spot forming right where the tennis ball had smacked into his forehead.

“Shit.”

“That’s quite enough of that, dear. I’m so sorry I missed our usual coffee.” Aziraphale looked at Crowley fondly, and something in his heart gave a funny jolt. 

“Oh, you missed it? I hadn’t even noticed.” Crowley said, pointedly looking anywhere other than at Aziraphale. He was adult, for goodness sake. He didn’t get upset because someone stood him up for coffee. 

“Crowley.” Aziraphale repeated, and Crowley finally looked up. “Next time you really ought to just knock on my door, there’s a good chap.” Crowley grunted. “It’s only, well, I’m rather embarrassed to admit that I had utterly forgotten my syllabi, and I’m afraid I’ve been rushing through creating them for the past several minutes.” Crowley’s eyes widened. 

“You what?!” His face split into a grin. 

“I forgot, that’s what.” Aziraphale levelled a glare at him. “I should be finished by the time I brew some coffee, though, I was just pulling out the mugs when you had that spectacular burst of theatrics-”

“-I dunno what you’re talking-”

“-and I suppose you ought to come over to my office so you can look over my work for spelling errors before we return to the thronging mob of students, how does that sound?” Crowley just nodded, and let Aziraphale lead the way to his office.


	4. Freshmen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale have their first day of lectures. As expected, they're very different.  
> Come yell at me over @isoundmybarbaricyawp on tumblr!!

Crowley sauntered into class, his hips swinging with every step. He pushed the door open, and it hammered against the wall with a loud thud. Several students in the first row jumped, and Crowley grinned at them. He tossed his bag down onto the desk in the front of the room and turned to survey the class. They’d fallen silent when he’d walked in, not even a titter among them.

“So…” He began, attempting to maintain a scowl. He broke. Of course he did, he was never able to conceal a grin for long. “Who’s ready to learn about some history?” He leaned forward to scrutinize his class. He was met with some blank stares, some wide-eyed gazes. He leaned back onto the desk, hiking one long let up to rest on the table top. He could have sworn he heard a squeak from somewhere in the back of the room, and he smirked. “Well of course you’re not. You’re all under the mistaken impression that history is utterly dull.” He paused, quirked an eyebrow. “Look at me. Do I look like someone who would devote my time to something dull?” He paused again to give them a moment to think it over, and winked at an anxious looking freshman in the front row. She blushed furiously. “Now see here, I was there when all of this was going down, and I know all the dirty details. Better yet? I’ll share them with you. If you’re still uninterested by midterms, I’ll eat my shoes.” Finally, finally some tentative laughter. “So, take out your syllabi, if you’d be so kind. Does anyone need an extra copy?”

He walked them through the syllabus, making his expectations perfectly clear. “If you expected this class to be an easy-A, you were right.” Some raised eyebrows from his now riveted audience. “I want you to explore things that interest you. I want you to get stirred up, to interact. If you do that, I can guarantee you’ll be happy with your grade in my class.” 

He had the students go around the room and introduce themselves. “It’s important to me that I know your names. You’re not numbers, you’re not automatons, and you’re not useless. Act like it.” 

He concluded by reminding them of his office hours, email address, and cell phone number. “I want you to ask me questions. I once had a student call me in a panic at 2 am to ask me why he couldn’t find the Defenestration of Prague in his textbook. Turns out he was using his lit book by mistake. The point is, no question is too inconsequential.” 

By the time he’d finished, his students were looking significantly more at ease. He hung around as they left, purposefully packing up slowly. Sure enough, just like always, one of them approached him. It was the poor girl who’d blushed when he’d winked.

“Sir?” He looked up and grinned.

“Yes, Bea?” She perked up.

“Well, I was wondering, Dr. Crowley…” She trailed off, and Crowley pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. 

“Yes?” He encouraged.

“Is your forehead alright, sir?” Bea blurted out in a rush. Crowley burst into laughter, Bea looked taken aback. When he’d calmed down a bit, he grinned broadly at her.

“You know when you fancy someone, and you’re trying to be cool about it but then you end up being remarkably uncool about it?” He asked, running a hand through his already untidy red hair. 

“Yes…?” Bea sounded hesitant.

“It’s sort of like that. Here I was, minding my own business, attempting to be remarkably unaffected, throwing a tennis ball against the wall of a colleague’s office, and I’m betrayed by own attempted nonchalance as that same tennis ball returns to metaphorically bite me in the ass, literally to hit me on the forehead. Imagine that.” He chuckles, and Bea, finally giving in, smiles. Crowley shouldered his bag and moved towards the door, he held it open for the freshman, and she scurried past him. They walked together up the stairs. 

“So, how’s your first day so far?” He asked, looking down at her. She only came up to just below his chest. She looked up, her brow furrowed. “It’s a rough world out there for freshmen.”

“How’d you know I’m a freshman?” She asked, cocking her head to one side.

“When you’ve been doing this for as long as I have, you end up with a pretty fantastic freshman-dar, as it were. You settling in alright? Roommate not causing you any problems?” As they exited the building, he made an effort to cut his stride a little shorter. He often did the same when he walked with Aziraphale, all the same, Bea was still hurrying to keep up. 

“Yeah, actually. It’s been great so far. Overwhelming, but great.” She grinned, tripping over one of her converse as she half-jogged alongside him. 

“What else are you taking this semester?” He asked, stopping at an intersection.

“I’ve got Microbiology, Organic Chemistry, Psychology, and Intro to Shakespeare.” Crowley chuckled to himself, there was always one or two students who took his class and one of Aziraphale’s at the same time. The dangers of teaching a class that could fulfill a gen-ed requirement, he supposed. 

“Well, all the best to you. My door is always open.” He grinned.

“Thank you, sir.” She said, giving him a little wave. She was halfway across the street when he called after her.

“That’s quite enough of the ‘sir’ business!” She nodded, doing a little half turn. He waved her off, good naturedly. 

Aziraphale straightened his bow tie outside of the classroom. He was early, as he always was for his lectures. He scowled, then pushed into the room. It was quite definitely empty, and he breathed a sigh of relief. Intro to Shakespeare would have been one of his favorite classes to teach if it hadn’t been a gen ed fulfillment course. Half of the students who took this course weren’t interested in literature in the slightest, and the other half would be sure to pester him endlessly with questions. It was a no-win scenario.

He took a seat at the desk in the front of the room and pulled a book out of his bag. He soon became immersed, and barely noticed when the students began to file in. He kept them waiting, continuing to read until some brave soul cleared their throat. Only then did he look up, deliberately close his book, and stand up.

“Ah.” He said, looking out at them. It was a small group. That, at least, was comforting. “Yes.” He took off his reading glasses wearily, cleared his throat half heartedly. “Good morning.” There were a few polite echoes of the greeting. Aziraphale fought not to roll his eyes. “This is Introduction to Shakespeare, is everyone in the right place?” There were some nods. “Very well. Could someone do me the courtesy of passing out these syllabi?” He handed them off to a short girl sitting in the front row. 

“Surely you’ve all seen my reviews on Rate My Professor.” He asked, when she had returned to her seat. “I have a colleague who delights in reading them aloud to me.” He found himself grinning at the thought, but quickly banished it, bringing himself back to the present. “I am not an easy grader. I do not, as a rule, care much for undergraduates, but here we are.” Already, someone had their hand up. It was the tiny one, who’d passed out his syllabi. He narrowed his eyes at her. “Yes?” She grinned at him, and he was momentarily thrown.

“Sorry, professor, it’s just, I don’t see your office hours anywhere. Or your email address.” She was still smiling. Where one earth had this tiny freshman picked up so much confidence. He very nearly enjoyed it.

“There’s a very good reason for that.” He informed her, his eyes still narrowed. “I have a very precise personal schedule. I want you to be very very certain of your questions before you come and ask me. I can’t have my office overrun by students who cannot fathom how to use an index.” He replied curtly. Was that a hint of a smile on her face? Honestly. 

“Now, to Shakespeare.” He described the assignments he expected them to complete. He asked all of his classes for lengthy papers, 5-7 pages for the gen-eds, 15-20 for the classes chock full of literature majors, 25-30 for his writing seminar. He also required students to memorize and recite a monologue from one of the plays they would be reading. He also took the time to describe how the class would generally run, that he’d expect everyone to read aloud, that he intended to lecture once the reading for the day was concluded. By the time he’d finished with his spiel, he still had 30 minutes of class remaining. 

“Any questions?” He asked. No hands in the air. He grinned. “Good, now…” He took a deep breath before beginning. “O, that this too solid flesh would melt…” He continued, speaking the words as they were meant to be heard, it was his favorite soliloquy in Hamlet, and it was how he began all of his Shakespeare classes. He felt the class holding their breath, enraptured. When he finished, he paused for dramatic effect. “We won’t actually be reading Hamlet, of course, but it’s a good jumping off point. We need to ask ourselves-who exactly was William Shakespeare?” He paused, surveying the class. “I should see far more notebooks open on your desks.” He remarked, pointedly, and paused to allow for the flurry of activity. By the end of the additional 30 minutes, most students in the room had two pages of frantically scribbled notes. He felt rather smug as he quickly packed his things, sure to be the first out of the room. 

He returned to the sanctity and peace of his office, and sighed in relief. He scribbled a note hastily on a post it. Crowley was surely still dealing with his students, answering questions, probably out to coffee with one of them, if he knew him at all. He stuck the post it to the door and closed it behind him, lest he be pestered.

When Crowley returned to his office an hour later, he grinned as he caught sight of the sky blue post it on his neighbor’s door. “AJC-knock twice for lunch. Students-Come back another day! Warm regards, AZW.” Crowley chuckled, before plucking the post it off the door and knocking twice.


	5. Friday Night Lights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the joke is that the lights are shabbat candles

The week passed by nicely for the pair of them. Crowley got to see his History of Judaism class twice that week, and was pleased to see many familiar faces. He gained something of a following that grew steadily with each passing year. Aziraphale, on the other hand, had very nearly caused several nervous breakdowns already. They had their routine, coffee, in the morning, then lunch in the afternoon. A cup of tea or a muffin together before going home in the evening. Most of the time, Aziraphale would invite Crowley over for a drink or two, and he almost always accepted. He was a glutton for punishment, it seemed, and he liked how red Aziraphale’s face got when he’d been drinking. 

On Friday, Crowley was finished early, he only had his introductory class in the morning. The class was impressing him so far, Bea led them in discussions frequently, and by their third class, no one was afraid to ask a question anymore. He concluded class a little early, but held them for one announcement. 

“Now, before you all go off and enjoy the first Friday of term, I wanted to let you know about a class policy I have.” They listened closely, and Crowley grinned, toothily. “You’ve all got a paper to write for me, I know from some of your emails that you’ve already begun choosing subjects. That’s fantastic, and I’m always a fan of enthusiasm.” He chuckled, putting his things in his bag as he spoke. “I require all students to have a one-on-one consultation with me before you officially choose a topic, and once after you’ve begun writing the paper.” He scrutinized them. “You can email or text me to set up an appointment, I’ll be free any weekday except Fridays. Any questions?” He looked around, one of the boys in the back of the class raised his hand. “Yes, Harry?” 

“Why not Fridays, Dr. Crowley?” He asked, his deep voice resonating. “Hot date with the tennis ball crush?” He’d recounted the tale during the second class, hoping to make up for any confusion he’d caused by having an ugly red splotch on his face as he explained the syllabus. There were some appreciative chuckles throughout the classroom. 

“No, tragically I’m still waiting for any sort of development on that front, but I’m glad you’re all on my side here.” He laughed. “I go to shul on Friday evenings and Saturday mornings, so I’m incommunicado while that’s going on.” Harry nodded, sagely. “Alright, get out of here, go be young.” He shouldered his bag and waved them out the door. 

He beat Aziraphale back to the office for once, he usually stopped for a coffee or a chat with one of his students, and passed the time by working on an article he’d been researching. He was a Jewish Historian and an historian of Judaism, something he delighted in repeating when he was given any opportunity. He had been working through a poem by Judah HaLevi, and sure, he was a cliche, reading centuries old love poems under the guise of research, but he could cope with being a little pathetic. He got lost in his reading when someone knocked on his door. 

“It’s open!” He called, assuming it’d be a student. He kept reading until he heard Aziraphale’s voice.

“I’ve just escaped my students and honestly the fact that they can’t understand what on earth anyone in Midsummer Night’s Dream is trying to say is actually tragic. Do you know how old I was when I first read-” Crowley had abruptly snapped his book shut and threw it into one of his desk drawers. Once again he felt a blush creeping steadily up his neck. Aziraphale looked taken aback. “My dear boy, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.” He grinned at him, pausing on his route to the chair on the other side of Crowley’s desk. 

“You weren’t interrupting.” Crowley insisted. “Tell me more, Oberon, Puck, all of them, right?” Aziraphale looked suspicious. 

“Good lord, you’re red. Was that pornography?” If Crowley had had any hope of maintaining his dignity, he lost it. 

“Honestly? Like I’d? Where any student could come? Like I even! In general! How absurd. How do I know you weren’t reading pornography?!” He spluttered.

“Because I’m standing right in front of you without any pornography.” Aziraphale replied, calmly.

“R-right.” Crowley looked up at him, and Aziraphale took his seat. “It’s just research, nothing that should concern you in any way shape or form.”

“Yes, your behavior certainly isn’t cause for concern at all.” Came the wry reply. Crowley glared at him. “You know, your face might be more frightening if it weren’t such a lovely color.” Crowley promptly choked on the air. 

“Was there a reason you decided to disturb my peace and quiet?”

“Oh come now, dear, we both know you hate to go unpestered.” Aziraphale winked. Crowley fought back another gasp. “I was just wondering whether you’d like to make dinner plans for the evening.” Crowley raised an eyebrow. 

“Are you trying to invite yourself over for Shabbat dinner?” He asked, fighting back a chuckle. A look of realization dawned on Aziraphale. 

“It’s Friday.” He noted, “I’m so sorry I’d completely lost track of the week.” It had happened before. Several times Crowley’s phone had rung on a Saturday afternoon, and he’d had to listen to a long, rambling message from Aziraphale on his ancient answering machine before, inevitably, he remembered what day of the week it was. 

“So you were trying to score an invite to dinner, then?” Crowley’s eyebrow creeped higher on his forehead, and this time it was Aziraphale’s turn to blush. His cheeks went rosy.

“Well, now, if there were... to be such an... invitation... I certainly wouldn’t be... inclined... to refuse.” He always chose his words so carefully, but Crowley knew that when he was embarrassed or worked up, he had to speak slowly to ensure he didn’t say anything outrageous, or misspoke. It was endearing, but then, what didn’t Crowley find endearing about Aziraphale. 

He took the opportunity to enjoy seeing Aziraphale slightly flustered. He stared at him in silence for a moment or two, and he could swear he could see the actual effort Aziraphale was making to not burst out and say something absurd. Finally, Crowley cracked a smile.

“Course you can come.” Aziraphale exhaled, relieved. 

“There’s no need for all that.” He scowled, and Crowley laughed. 

“Sure there was!” He insisted. He had been hoping to invite Aziraphale, anyway. He often turned up at Crowley’s Shabbat table, invited or not. He said he liked the challah Crowley baked. Crowley was the superior baker, after all. 

“Well, anyway, I suppose I’ll see you this evening then, are you off?” Crowley nodded.

“I ought to get going, the challah ought to be done with it’s second proof, and I’ve got to make sure everything’s on a simmer. I’ll see you tonight.” It was all so perfectly domestic, Crowley wanted to vomit. “Shul should finish up around 7:30, see you around 8?” Aziraphale nodded, but hesitated at the door as Crowley ushered him out, bag already over his shoulder. 

“And you’re sure you weren’t reading porn?”

“Get out before I uninvite you.”

Several hours later, the challah (rosemary and olive oil, this time) successfully baked and dinner (lentil soup with orzo salad) simmering on the stove, Crowley affixed his kippah to his head, flattening down his shock of red hair just a bit in the back. He stepped out of his front door, and scowled a bit up at the sky. It was a deep, dark grey. At this rate, it’d be raining by the time he left the synagogue, and he’d look like a drowned rat by the time he met Aziraphale. Still, it was only a few blocks. He stepped onto the street when he noticed a familiar sedan parked on the side of the road directly in front of his building. Aziraphale waved frantically from inside the car, Crowley crossed the street to peer in the passenger window, which Aziraphale dutifully rolled down. 

“What the deuce are you doing here? Didn’t we agree on eight?” 

“Crowley, honestly, look at the sky! It’s going to pour and you’ll catch your death. I’d be happy to give you a ride.” Crowley was taken aback. 

“That’s...you don’t have to.” He said, leaning away slightly. Aziraphale frowned at him.

“Honestly. On Friday nights you have me switch off the stove and turn on the lights, I don’t see how this is any different.” Crowley hesitated. “Come now, in you get.” Finally, Crowley opened the door and stepped inside. Almost immediately, a light rain began. Crowley glowered at the sky. Hashem certainly had a sense of humor. 

“I-thank you, Aziraphale.” He said, turning to him.

“Don’t think on it.” He said, grinning as he peeled into the street. “Now, if you’re not comfortable, I’ll happily wait in the car or make myself scarce until 7:30, not to worry.” He suggested, looking sidelong at Crowley. Aziraphale drove very carefully. Hands at ten-and-two, eyes on the road, consistently checking his mirrors. Crowley hesitated before responding, he’d never brought anyone to shul with him before. 

“No.” He said, finally.

“No?” 

“You should, you ought to come. Be silly for you to wait.” He reasoned, and he chanced a look at Aziraphale. He looked pleased, a slight smile curling the corners of his mouth, that beautiful pink returning to his cheeks.

“Well, if you’re sure.”

“Course I’m sure.” 

“Thank you, dear, that’s very kind of you.”

“You’re the one driving me all over town. Left, here.” 

They pulled into the synagogue parking lot, which was nearly empty but for a few cars and a couple bicycles propped up on the bike rack. Aziraphale cut the engine and got out. Crowley took a deep breath and followed suit. They walked together in nearly comfortable silence to the front doors. A big man in a suit and tie stood before the doors. He cracked a smile when he saw Crowley approach. 

“Shabbat Shalom, William.” Crowley greeted him, holding out his hand. The man shook it enthusiastically. 

"How’ve you been, man?” The man, William, asked. 

“New semester, new students, same tiny office. You?” He grinned back, Crowley felt more at ease already. 

“I’ve been standing here since last week waiting for you to get back.” He laughed. They had the same routine every week, it was practically part of Shabbat services by now. William’s eyes travelled from Crowley’s face to Aziraphale’s, then sharply back to Crowley’s. “Is this-?!” 

“Well, see you after!” Crowley cut him off, tugging at Aziraphale’s jacket sleeve to urge him on. They stepped inside the lobby, and Crowley steered Aziraphale toward the extra kippot kept in a bin by the sanctuary door.

“What was that?” Aziraphale asked, smiling at him. Crowley feigned ignorance.

“That would be William. He’s security around here. All muscle, you know.” Crowley picked a kippah out and handed it to Aziraphale.

“Oh, thank you.” He replied, and placed it directly on the top of his head. What was it about a goy in a kippah that always looked so absurd? Crowley reached up and adjusted it for him, bracketing Aziraphale’s head with his arms as he slid the kippah back a bit. When he realized just how close their faces were, he dropped his arms abruptly and took a half step back, his face burning. “Again, thank you.”

“Shall we get on, then?” Aziraphale nodded, and Crowley pushed open the door to the sanctuary. The usual suspect were all there, the tiny rabbi up front, the cantor beside him. Crowley took his usual seat right behind Mrs. Snyder, next to Mr. Cohen, and motioned for Aziraphale to sit beside him. Mrs. Snyder turned around, reaching her hand out. 

“Anthony.” She said cupping his face in one wrinkled hand. He smiled at her. 

“Shabbat shalom.” He said, taking her hand in both of his. Aziraphale felt something clench in his chest. Oh dear. 

“To you, too, dear.” She pulled his hands to face and kissed them before turning back around. The tension in Crowley’s shoulders eased somewhat. He grinned hesitantly at Aziraphale, who swallowed the urge to make some sort of high pitched noise. 

“Anthony?” He asked, not able to contain his beaming smile. Crowley meant to glare at him, but he just grinned wider.

“Shut up.” 

A guitar strummed from the bimah, prompting Crowley and Aziraphale to turn. Cantor Friedberg strummed lightly, and Rabbi Dov raised his hand in welcome. The chatter died nearly immediately as the service began.


	6. Slow Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm genuinely still so excited about this fic. Yell at me about it over @isoundmybarbaricyawp on tumblr.

As Crowley davened, he was hyper aware of Aziraphale next to him. They were close, close enough that Crowley could feel the heat radiating from him. Occasionally Aziraphale would lean over and whisper a question. 

“Why did we face the door?” He asked, so quiet it was like he was breathing the question right into Crowley.

“We’re welcoming Shabbat.” Crowley breathed back. 

Then, later on “Why two candles?” but they were about to begin the Amidah, so Crowley held up a finger, and answered him afterwards.

When Rabbi Dov reached the prayer for the sick, when they sang out, wishing for a refuah shlemah, a recovery, Aziraphale grasped his hand. Crowley’s eyes widened as he looked down at their hands. Then, very cautiously, he gave Aziraphale’s a small squeeze. Aziraphale smiled up at him. They stood for the mourner’s kaddish, sang Adon Olam, and were enthusiastically invited for cookies and challah. Aziraphale had let go of his hand after a moment or two, but Crowley could still feel the weight of it. Mrs. Snyder stood and turned around. She looked expectantly at Crowley.

“Come and have a cookie, Anthony. You’re much too thin.” Aziraphale chuckled, and Crowley pouted. 

“If you insist, Mrs. Snyder.” He stood, and Aziraphale followed suit.

“Is this your young man, here?” Mrs. Snyder asked, nodding at Aziraphale. Crowley sputtered.

“My young man? What on earth would give you that idea?” He demanded, taking her arm as they strolled back out of the sanctuary. Aziraphale walked on his other side, looking between them quizically. 

“Well you’re always going on about that one gentleman you work with, aren’t you? You’ve brought him up at Torah study, shorter, with the gorgeous hair and the style. We all just assumed he’d turn up sooner or later.” Mrs. Snyder smiled, steering Crowley into the Oneg Room, she piled a plate high with cakes and challah and forced it into Crowley’s hand. She patted his cheek again, then turned to Aziraphale. “You have a good head on your shoulders?”

“Well, I certainly like to think so.” Aziraphale, never having been properly scrutinized by a bubby, looked startled. 

“You have a kind heart?” She demanded, taking hold of his arm. 

“I-well, yes.” He replied, smiling slightly. 

“Good, he needs that, he’s too hard on himself.”

“Mrs. Snyder, please-” Crowley started, but she just picked up a piece of petit fours and shoved it in his mouth. 

“I need some terrible kosher wine. Excuse me, boys.” She shuffled off, leaving Crowley beet red and Aziraphale looking rather pleased with himself. 

“So, you’ve mentioned me?” He asked, after a beat.

“You’ve come up once or twice.” Crowley corrected through a mouthful of cake and jam. “Hardly a big deal. Oh lord.” He groaned, and Aziraphale turned around to see Rabbi Dov approaching them. 

“Anthony, how are you?” He asked, the rabbi was even shorter than Aziraphale, he wore a three piece suit. 

“Shabbat shalom, Rabbi, I’m well, how are you?” The rabbi smiled graciously. 

“Shabbat shalom. Can I count on your for first day of Rosh Hashanah this year?” He asked, clapping Crowley on the shoulder.

“Of course, I’ve already cancelled my classes.” He replied. “Same portion as last year?” 

“And the year before that, and the year before that.” The rabbi laughed, then turned to Aziraphale. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“Oh, yes, hello.” Aziraphale said, twiddling his thumbs behind his back. “My name is Aziraphale Will, I’m-” He glanced at Crowley. 

“He’s my Shabbat Goy.” He said, winking at Aziraphale and promptly feeling his face burn again. “Saved me from a rainy walk home.” 

“Aziraphale...sounds familiar.” The rabbi threw a look Crowley’s way. 

“Yes yes yes, he’s famous in these parts apparently.” Crowley rolled his eyes, the rabbi offered Aziraphale his hand.  
“Well, I’m glad you came, if only to save Crowley’s hair. You’re welcome anytime.” Aziraphale shook his hand.

“Thank you.” The rabbi shook Crowley’s next, offered them both another Shabbat Shalom, and moved on. 

“Let’s get on then, angel. We ought to get going.” Aziraphale smiled at him, and followed him toward the exit. 

“William, see you tomorrow.” Crowley extended his fist and the pair bumped knuckles. William offered his fist to Aziraphale, and they repeated the gesture.

Aziraphale held the car door open for Crowley, who muttered an embarrassed word of thanks. They drove back to Crowley’s flat in silence. It was only when Aziraphale parked that he spoke up.

“Do you know,” he began, and Crowley tensed. “I don’t believe I’ve given a fist bump in over a decade.” Crowley burst into laughter.

“Stick with me, then, you’ll get loads.” Crowley sassed, unbuckling his seatbelt and stepping out of the car. 

“Oh, I intend to.” Aziraphale agreed.

The flat smelled incredible, the air thick with yeasty remnants and the spice of the lentils. Aziraphale settled himself at the table as Crowley lit the candles, and cheersed him as he said Kiddush, sipping daintily at the wine. A red blend. One of his favorites. He found he couldn’t quite look away from Crowley, even after he said Hamotzi and accepted a piece of challah, his manicured hand lingering over Crowley’s on the hand-off. Crowley dug in and looked at him expectantly.

“Well?” He demanded, and Aziraphale snapped out of it.

“Olive oil…” He paused, looking at Crowley, who nodded, grinning. “And...rosemary?” 

“Ding ding ding!” Crowley raised his hands up triumphantly. “Give the man a prize! What do you think of it?”

“Well it’s perfect, dear boy.” Crowley practically preened at the praise. “Nothing can compare to the cardamom, pistachio, and rose, but this is certainly a worthy competitor.”

“I’ll make that one next week, if you want.” Crowley offered. Aziraphale only chuckled.

“Do slow down.” Crowley slumped almost imperceptibly. “Let’s...get through this Shabbat first, shall we?” Crowley nodded.

“Right. Right. Of course.” He looked abashed. Aziraphale reached across the table, fully intending to grab Crowley’s arm, to comfort him. He lost his nerve halfway through, however, and grabbed the butter instead, nearly putting his thumb in it in his eagerness to change course. 

“Do you remember the first time you came to Shabbat?” Crowley asked, desperately. He needed to rein himself in, here. Aziraphale, thankfully, took the bait.

“Oh it was so bleak in here back then. Honestly, it looked like an undergraduate lived here, dear.”

And they were off, filling the spaces, and as they finished dinner, the wine disappeared, and they ended up, as they so often did, sprawled on opposite sides of Crowley’s living room. Crowley took off his spectacles, and used them to gesture at Aziraphale. 

“My point…” he began, “it’s very simple, angel...my point…” he gestured vaguely, Aziraphale chuckled, low and deep. “My point is, frankly, that all of Shakespeare is gay, ‘n’there’s not a damn thing anyone can do about it.” He nodded, pleased with how finely he’d articulated that.

“Do put your glasses back on, you’ll give yourself a headache, there’s a good chap.” Aziraphale advised. Crowley followed his instructions. “As for your well articulated point, you don’t honestly expect me to disagree with you, do you?”

They continued on like that for quite a while, discussing Puck, Viola, Beatrice and Benedick, and on and on. Crowley didn’t remember nodding off, but he woke with a stiff back to find a note from Aziraphale stuck to the chair he’d been lounging in the night before. 

“Took the liberty of brewing coffee, call you after sundown. Yours, AZW” Crowley seized it and pocketed it. All in all, a good start to Shabbat.


	7. Careful, Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I cannot nor will I ever stop.  
> @isoundmybarbaricyawp on tumblr, im dying here please lmk what you think

Aziraphale noticed Crowley nodding off, of course. He watched it happen, watched Crowley go from animatedly ranting about Shakespeare, to swinging his legs up onto the couch beside him, to dozing off completely. He had chuckled from behind his wine glass. Crowley could fall asleep anywhere. He waited a few minutes, to make sure that Crowley was properly asleep, before crossing the room and examining him more closely.

Crowley’s tan face, so often screwed up in worry (no matter how valiantly he tried to conceal it), or excitement, was relaxed, his jaw slack and the lines that creased his forehead ironed out. Aziraphale reached out and, very slowly, very gently, removed Crowley’s glasses from where they sat askew on the bridge of his nose. Crowley sniffed, but didn’t stir. Something stirred in Aziraphale as he looked at him, some long forgotten heat deep beneath his sternum. He reached out a hand towards Crowley’s unkept hair, but stopped just before he brushed the red tresses. He stared at his hand outstretched in front of him, and stood up abruptly.

“What on earth.” He murmured, looking down at the gangly fellow, his sharp corners made pliant by sleep. “What.” Aziraphale shook his head, and wretchedly took another sip of wine. It was as if something shifted, like some piece of analysis had slotted into place, some piece of prose he’d been looking for, suddenly illuminated. He grinned, before shuffling over to the closet, where he knew he’d find a blanket or two. He reached up, grinning as he spotted the tartan patterned throw he’d given Crowley for his birthday several years back. He’d insisted it didn’t match his design aesthetic, Aziraphale had pointed out that Crowley had no design aesthetic. He threw the throw over Crowley, feeling certain he wouldn’t even notice in the morning, and passed into Crowley’s study to write him a note.

He left in the early hours of the morning, stealing another glance as the sunlight began to stream in, dappled by the plants that adorned the room, onto Crowley’s face. He sighed, shaking his head, grin plastered onto his face. 

“Of course.” He whispered to himself. Aziraphale wasn’t one to waste any time once a realization like this had been made. He’d always been forward, always been honest about these things. The only question now was-what came next?

Monday morning found Crowley examining himself in his bedroom mirror. The words from Friday night echoed in his head. “Do slow down…” He whispered, and shook his head, hard. He clenched his fists. “Idiot! Why’d you go and invite him to shul? Why’d you have to ruin everything?” He shook his head again. He’d tried, on Saturday evening once the sun had gone down, to work. He’d tried to get some research done, respond to emails, edit one of his journal articles he’d be submitting for review, but everything he attempted just looked so utterly stupid to him. Aziraphale’s words ringing in his ears, the way he’d bailed that evening seared into his skin, his distance, sitting all the way across the room from him that night, appeared every time he blinked. 

Crowley wasn’t all the smart, really. He’d told Mrs. Snyder that Saturday morning at Torah study.

“A real idiot, I am, Mrs. Snyder.” He’d sighed, hungover and regretful. She’d patted his hand and shoved a cup of tea under his nose. They’d delved into the Song of Songs, which was worse. He ached, and he forced himself to put all thoughts of Aziraphale out of his mind. It hadn’t helped when he’d returned home and found the tartan blanket on the floor of his living room. He’d kicked it under the sofa in frustration. Aziraphale had called that night, to his credit, but he’d sounded distracted. Probably couldn’t wait to get off the phone with him.

And yet here he was, Monday morning, yelling at himself in the mirror. He took his coffee to go that morning, attempting to rub away the dark shadows that had begun to bloom under his eyes. He hadn’t slept well the night before, had tossed and turned for most of the night before finally giving up, opting instead to attempt to drown himself dramatically in the shower.

He hopped in the car, switching on Queen, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in his chest when Somebody To Love came on. He had considered cancelling classes today, but that never made him feel any better. It was best to just muscle through it, like he’d always done. He kept his eyes down as he passed Aziraphale’s office, but of course that didn’t act as a deterrent. A few minutes later there was a knock at the door.

“Mmm?” He grunted, opening the nearest book to him and burying his nose in it. Aziraphale bounced in, positively radiant, Crowley nearly winced.

“Good morning!” He chirped, placing Crowley’s mug in front of him and sitting in the vacant armchair on the other side of the desk. Crowley didn’t look up from the book, but his eyes weren’t moving, he was just staring at the subheadings, unable to comprehend them.

“Is it?” He disagreed, taking the coffee in his free hand and sipping it, still not looking up. He couldn’t see Aziraphale, so the hand on the arm holding the book came as a surprise. He nearly jolted back in alarm as Aziraphale gently moved his arm, forcing him slowly to reveal his face. Crowley’s eyes met Aziraphale’s, and for once he was grateful for the small measure of security his glasses brought him.

“Have I interrupted you, Crowley?” Crowley’s book was down, but Aziraphale didn’t move his hand. “I was rather hoping we could resume our usual coffee dates.” Crowley’s face burned. With embarrassment? With shame? With want? He wasn’t sure. 

“Right, no, sorry.” Crowley put down the book. He could do this. He could be normal. Just another normal day being normal friends with the love of his life. Nothing odd about that.

“Good, listen I was wondering if I could get your feedback.” Aziraphale looked at Crowley expectantly. Crowley just nodded, still looking at Aziraphale as infrequently as he could. “I’ve been working through some Neruda, trying to see if it’ll fit in with the other sources I’m using, would you mind reading through it to see if you think it’ll work with my themes?” Crowley blanched as Aziraphale reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled out a pocket Neruda.

“I can’t read that.” He said, thickly. Aziraphale tutted at him.

“Of course you can, you’re too clever not to have read Neruda before.” Crowley blushed, he wish he could stop that. He stared as Aziraphale held out the book to him. “I’ve flagged the appropriate pages.” Crowley took it silently, nodding. “Well then, how was the rest of your weekend?” Aziraphale leaned forward as he asked, looking at Crowley. Finally, painfully and slowly, Crowley met Aziraphale’s eyes.

Aziraphale knew Crowley well, knew when something was bothering him, knew when he was irked. Crowley valued sleep, he loved it. If there were bags under Crowley’s eyes, it meant something was eating at him, more than just a hangover or an unfinished paper.

“Fine, fine.” He blew off the question, but Aziraphale knew better.

“Why haven’t you slept?” He asked, pointedly, reaching across the desk, bridging the space between them, he put his hand down flat on the desk. An invitation that he knew Crowley wouldn’t take without a little nudging. 

“I slept fine, angel.” He said, and nearly winced. 

“Sure you did, that’s why your coffee’s nearly finished.” He had been nearly chugging it since Aziraphale had set it down. 

“Exactly.” A challenge, but Aziraphale knew how to manage a grumpy Crowley. He expertly changed the subject.

“You know, dear, I do believe your plants are looking rather verdant lately. What have you been doing with them?” He smiled, removed his hand, and placed it in his lap. Crowley leapt up, moving about to his plants and describing the threats he employed, as well as the actual gardening tricks he’d used to make them so vibrantly green. By the time Aziraphale’s coffee was done, Crowley still looked guarded, but he at least looked more upbeat. 

“I’d better be off.” Crowley said, shouldering his bag. “Students, you know.” Aziraphale nodded, and stood up. He walked with Crowley to the door of his office, but stopped before Crowley could open the door. “What is it?” 

Aziraphale put his hand on Crowley’s shoulder, feeling his muscles under the thin fabric of Crowley’s (frankly-obscenely tight) shirt. He squeezed once, and watched Crowley close his eyes behind his glasses. Aziraphale kept his hand there until he opened them again.

“I’ll see you for lunch.” Aziraphale asserted. Crowley nodded, and practically threw the door open.

Crowley was distracted in class. 

“Right, so, the interwar period. This...crisis of reason, as it were.” He ran a hand through his hair. He hadn’t had time, what with all of the yearning, to properly prepare for this morning’s lecture. He knew this stuff, but he felt terrible letting his students down. “This is...probably best viewed through art.” He wished he’d brought examples. 

He muscled through, looking rather like a muppet by the time he was through, he couldn’t seem to keep his hands out of his hair. He slumped in the seat behind the desk and slowly packed up his things. He wasn’t even paying attention to the long line of student milling out the door. He looked up when he heard a small cough. Bea, Harry, and Leo had remained behind. Harry and Leo had started class in the back of the room, but they debated with Bea so much that week that he’d insisted they join her up front, where she sat alone in the row. 

“Hi guys.” He said, zipping up his bag. He stood and jerked his head, signalling for them to follow. “What’s up?” They jogged along after him.

“Well, professor, you know how we’re meant to have meetings about our papers?” Crowley nodded. 

“Yes I’m aware.”

“Well, sorry to ask, Dr. Crowley, but-” Harry began, and Crowley snapped out of it. He stopped, holding up a hand. The other three skidded to a stop. 

“Don’t be sorry to ask.” He insisted, peering down at him. “Not ever. Not in my class.” Harry nodded, sheepishly.

“Right, right.” Crowley waved a hand, and Leo picked up the spiel.

“Well, we were thinking about doing something around the same time period, and we were wondering if, instead of individually, we could meet with you as a group.” Crowley frowned a bit. 

“Not that we’re cheating! Or anything!” Bea insisted, and he let out a laugh.

“I don’t think you’d cheat, Bea. Look at you.” He chortled, and Bea grinned. “I was just wondering why.” 

“Well, we’re worried we’ll forget our questions, or we’ll forget to write something down. If there’s three of us, and we’re all on the same page then-” Leo rambled, Crowley held up his hand again.

“Alright, alright,” He was smiling in earnest now. “When did you want to meet?” 

They set up a meeting for the following week, and Crowley bounced all the way back to his office, in a considerably better mood than he’d been in just a few hours ago. He sauntered into his office, but his heart clenched when he saw the Neruda book on his desk. Right.


	8. ((Jewish Definition Interlude))

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Look I won't disappoint the next time you check your bookmarks but I'm a sucker for an index so, also like hey if you want to disagree with me about these defs hmu I love to learn

A Brief Jewish Definition Interlude

Look, I’m a Hebrew School teacher, it’s actually my job to teach people about this stuff. And some of y’all have been asking about different aspects of this fic, and I figured I might as well share some basics with you! So, author’s interlude, please do bear in mind that this is a set of off the cuff definitions written by one 24 year old Ashkenazi Jew. 

Shul: Shul is like another word for synagogue, rather old fashioned but still used fairly widely. 

Shomer Shabbat: Crowley keeps Shabbat pretty rigidly, not all Jewish folks do this, but basically if you keep Shabbat like Crowley does you don’t use electricity and don’t work on Shabbat, which is why he needs someone to flick on the lights or, in this case, drive him to services.

Shabbat: Right, so Shabbat is a weekly holiday that begins Friday night at sundown and ends Saturday night at sundown. It’s a time to get refreshed from the week while remembering the story of G-d resting on the 7th day after creating the world. Lots of people go to shul on Shabbat or just celebrate with their families, and it usually involves a lovely dinner and some prayers.

Challah: the best bread. Braided. Usually comes in pairs, can be made in many delicious variants. Makes great french toast on Sunday morning when it’s a bit stale. We eat it at several holidays but it’s a Shabbat staple.

Kippah/Kippot: A head covering, usually round and accompanied by a bobby pin. Kippah is singular, Kippot is plural. Aka yarmulke except I can never spell it right on my first go.

Rabbi: leads services at synagogue, Jewish cultural leader and spiritual advisor. You’ve got a question? Ask the rabbi.

Cantor: leads prayers at a synagogue. Chanting and music and spiritual leader all rolled up into one. 

Bimah: It’s like a stage, I suppose. It’s where the ark that contains the Torah is, and that’s where the Rabbi and Cantor generally stand. It’s higher than the rest of the sanctuary because you’re supposed to literally ascend if you’re going to read Torah. Very symbolic, most things in Judaism are.

Facing the door: This is a reference to a (hymn? Poem? song?) that we sing on Shabbat. It’s welcoming Shabbat as if Shabbat was a bride, and in order to welcome Shabbat, at the end of the song everyone stands and turns to face the door (yknow, like you do when a bride comes in). Also and this is just extra but Lcha Dodi (the song) was written by this fellow named Shlomo Halevi and the stanzas are literally an acrostic that make his name. What a guy.

Amidah: Very important prayer in the service. Everyone stands and is quiet so that people can concentrate while they pray. Usually half said out loud and half silently, but that differs. It’s long, and covers a lot of bases, prayer wise.

Refuah Shlema: A full recovery. We have this prayer that mentions refuah shlema in the course of services, that focuses on the sick or ailing in the community, and it asks for a renewal of body and spirit. It’s a really lovely and beautiful prayer.

Mourner’s Kaddish: it’s a mourning prayer that mourners must say throughout their grieving process. Many shuls have everyone stand and say the Kaddish together so that it’s a communal mourning and therefore easier to bear. It’s decidedly not a sad prayer, and in fact focuses much more on life and light than death. 

Adon Olam: it’s a fun song/prayer/poem that usually concludes services. It’s repetitive and usually upbeat and it’s just fun. 

Oneg: colloquially, it’s where all of the cookies, cakes, challah, and wine is served after services. Basically it’s a time for everyone to eat and be hype about Shabbat.

Rosh Hashanah: Jewish new year, one of the high holidays, a very major holiday. In the fic, Crowley is being asked to read Torah on the first day (first of two) of Rosh Hashanah, which is an honor.

Shabbat Goy: First of all, a goy is someone who is not Jewish. A Shabbat Goy is someone who’s not Jewish who’s invited to Shabbat because they’re loved but also because when you can’t turn on the lights it’s lovely to have a non-Jew around who can. 

Lighting the Candles: It’s the kick off to Shabbat, kind of. You light the two candles and say the blessing, waving the light towards yourself and covering your eyes. It’s to welcome in the light of Shabbat.

Kiddush: Blessing over the wine! Very vital!

Hamotzi: Blessing over bread! Also vital!

Torah/Torah Study: So Torah is big, it’s the five books of Moses, but Jewish sacred writing goes far beyond that, including prophets, writings, interpretations, rabbinic lit, etc. But the Torah is read all the way through over the course of a year, and then we start over. It’s a big deal. Torah STUDY is basically when you get together to read some Torah and discuss it (read: argue about it). 

Song of Songs: Basically this is a celebration of love (sexual and romantic), it’s steamy and heart fluttery and fantastic, I made Crowley read it to torture him and also because if you’ve ever been in a Torah study with a bunch of bubbies and zeydahs and you read this it gets real funny real fast. 

Okay so there we go, a brief description. Idk have fun with it. Back to our regularly scheduled pining hopefully this evening or tomorrow depending on how quickly I can get my apartment cleaned.


	9. Loved like a dark thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You ever just...fuckin yearn?

Crowley paced in his living room, fuming as he read and reread the lines. 

“Honestly, Aziraphale.” He shook his head, took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, finding that the lines he’d just read seemed to be inscribed on the inside of his eyelids.

But/if each day/each hour/you feel that you are destined for me/with impeccable sweetness/if each day a flower/climbs up to your lips to seek me/ah my love, ah my own/in me all that fire is repeated/in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten/my love feeds on your love, beloved/as long as you live it will be in your arms/without leaving mine.

“Fuck.” Crowley spat, picking up the book again. It was like he could feel the words pounding in his veins. Why was he even reading this? Oh, right, of course, because Aziraphale had asked him to. He was fairly certain that if Aziraphale asked him to hand him his liver he would. But instead he was just having him, poor smitten, hopeless Crowley, read love poetry to see if it would fit with his latest thesis statement. So far, at least, he thought it did. But Aziraphale had flagged so many pages in this ancient compendium of poems, and Crowley, always a glutton for punishment, was compelled to read on. 

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair/silent and starving, I prowl through the streets/Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day/I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.

“Jesus, Aziraphale.” Crowley groaned, running a hand through his hair. He looked more and more like Beaker these days.

Like a jar you housed infinite tenderness/and the infinite tenderness shattered you like a jar.

Shattered was right. 

From your hips down to your feet/I want to make a long journey.

“Shit.” He forced himself to read through the rest, then promptly slammed the book onto his desk. He ached with a ferocity that he didn’t know was possible. Aziraphale’s new thesis was focused on literary expressions of love compared to the social mores of the time, and if Crowley was going to have to read any more love poetry to help Aziraphale he was sure he’d go insane. He threw himself onto the couch, taking deep dramatic breaths. He had to get a grip, he only had another hour or so before he’d have to leave for his Central European History seminar, and he wanted to be prepared. As if on cue, his phone rang, playing “Centerfold” loudly. “Shit.” He slid his finger over the screen, picking it up.

“What?” He asked, crossly. 

“Good afternoon, sweet.” Aziraphale crooned into the phone. Crowley stood up again, resuming his pacing. "I was wondering if you'd like to meet for a spot of coffee before your lecture tonight." 

“Nnnf.” He responded, eloquently.

“Now, now. Do use your words.” If Crowley wasn’t so angry with him, he would have swooned on the spot. 

“Fine.” He gritted out. 

“Great, I’ll meet you at our usual spot in ten, then.” Crowley didn’t answer, but apparently that wasn’t going to do. “Yes?”

“Yes.” Crowley agreed, and hung up on him. He made it to the university in record time, parked, and instead of heading into his office, stalked up to the cafe instead. It was a block away, and the poor undergraduates working there knew Crowley’s order by heart. He opened the door, inhaled deeply, he loved the smell of coffee, and stepped inside. 

“Oh! Crowley!” His eyebrows knitted together, and he turned, Aziraphale was already sitting at a small table in the window. Crowley sauntered over, aiming for ease and only missing slightly. Aziraphale smiled as he approached, and gestured at the chair opposite him. Two mugs sat steaming on the table. He quirked an eyebrow. “I took the liberty of ordering yours.” 

“How’d you know what I want?” Crowley asked suspiciously, taking a seat. He took a cautious whiff, it smelled like caramel, and he couldn’t fight back the grin that spread across his face.

“Honestly, we’ve been coming here for years, I know this is the only place where you’ll order anything sweet.”

“It’s because-”

“Because the espresso makes up for it, yes, I know.” Aziraphale winked at him, the butterflies in Crowley’s stomach were becoming murderous. “Poor dear, you look like you need it. Still not sleeping well?” Aziraphale’s free hand reached across the table to grasp Crowley’s wrist. 

“I’m sleeping fine.” He repeated for what felt like the millionth time this week. His eyes were fixed on his wrist. 

“Oh! I meant to ask-have you had a chance to look over the passages I’d marked for you?” Crowley’s heart was surely going to beat out of his chest. He felt like he couldn’t breathe. How were you meant to breathe in situations like this? In through the nose and out through the mouth, wasn’t it? Crowley settled on taking the smallest possible breaths he could manage. That didn’t help. 

“Yeah I looked at them.” He aimed for nonchalance, but the hand holding his mug shook as he brought it to his lips. It was perfect, he’d have to remember to thank Uriah, the young barista working the counter. Some other time. 

“And? What did you think?” Aziraphale pressed. 

“I think they’ll fit in with your thesis nicely.” 

“That’s all?” Aziraphale squeezed, he still hadn’t let go of Crowley’s wrist. 

“Well, it’s...it’s rather...risque, isn’t it?”

“Risque?” 

“Sexy.” Crowley clarified and blanched. “I-I mean. You-you’re clearly aiming for-for sex appeal here, and, well, I mean to say, you’re aiming to make it sexy. You’re writing! That is.” Aziraphale was chuckling lightly. 

“Well, sex sells, isn’t that so?” Crowley could only shrug. His hand was still on his arm. His thumb was pressed onto Crowley’s thrumming pulse point. A layer of fabric divided Aziraphale’s fingers from Crowley’s bare arm, but his thumb was pressed right into his skin. The heat was nearly unbearable, how was Aziraphale just sitting there?

“I’ve got to get to class.” Crowley said, leaning forward abruptly.

“Nonsense.” Aziraphale looked a bit disgruntled. “You’ve got another twenty minutes before you need to go. Stay with me a while.” Crowley’s heart clenched, he tamped down any response he might have had. Remembered the poetry. Remembered that if Aziraphale had asked him to, he probably would have stayed there all night. Leaned back in his chair once more. Finally, to both his immense relief and his immense disappointment, Aziraphale let go of him. 

“Right.”

“I was wondering if you wouldn’t like to come to my place after your lecture this evening.”

“‘Snot really a lecture, we talk and discuss and-” He cut himself off, his brain catching up to his mouth. “Your place?” Aziraphale nodded.

“Yes, dear, do keep up.” Crowley’s gut clenched harder. “I’d ordered a few bottles of Chateuneuf du Pape and they’ve just arrived. Won’t you share some with me?” 

“What’s the occasion?” Crowley narrowed his eyes behind his horn-rimmed spectacles. 

“When have we ever needed an occasion to drink good wine?”

“Point taken.”

“Will you come, sweet?” Crowley started to shake. He couldn’t bear this, it wasn’t fair. But a voice in the back of his head reminded him that of course he could. Of course he would.

“Of course I will.”


	10. Close

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> lmao I'm so sorry. Yell at me over at isoundmybarbaricyawp on tumblr. the french comes from one of my ancient history textbooks so i'm sorry if it's not actually right?

“So here’s the thing about Frederick the Great which nobody ever talks about,” Crowley leaned against his desk. The students leaned forward, their desks arranged in a circle in the tiny classroom. There were about 15 of them, dedicated history students, most of them specialized in German history. Crowley, as a whole, distrusted academics who studied German history, but he was fine with interested undergraduates. “He’s crown prince, and he’s set to marry an English princess, right? And this bloke falls in love with one of the king’s pages. Most historians will describe this as a “close personal friendship,” but I’ve never been one to bullshit you, they were lovers.”

There were appreciative chuckles in the room. Crowley’s students loved it when he cursed, but he attempted to do so sparingly in front of impressionable young history majors.

“So they send the king’s page away and the prospect of that particular marriage is done away with. Now, did Frederick Not-Yet-The-Great learn his lesson? Of course not.” He begins to pace. “People don’t just Learn Their Lesson when it comes to affairs of the heart, do they?” He made sure to emphasize the capitalization he envisioned in his words. His students scribbled eager notes. He adored the sound of enthusiastic pens scratching.

“No, of course not. So he ends up falling in love with one of his tutors, Katte, who’s also in the Prussian army. Now any reasonably minded Prussian noble would say ‘oh, I’ll keep this under wraps and conduct my affairs privately,’ but Frederick was not exactly reasonably minded.” He pauses in his pacing, hops up on his desk and sits criss-cross-apple-sauce upon it. 

“So they run away together instead. Foolproof plan, right? Well, if any of you have ever read any Shakespeare,” a wince at his own reference, “you’ll know that of course, they were caught. The plan is always discovered, after all.” A hand in the air. “Davis?” 

“What happened to Katte?” He asked. 

“Oh I’m getting there, let me tell you a tale would you? You young people always trying to skip to the end.” He winked at him. “Well, I’ll tell you. He was beheaded, of course, and poor Frederick forced to watch, but of course they couldn’t do even this in a no-nonsense fashion.” Legs unfolded, swinging and bumping against his desk, now.

“Frederick cries out in French, French, mind you, to Katte- ‘please forgive me, my dear Katte, in G-d’s name, forgive me!’ and Katte cries back, right before he’s beheaded, ‘there is nothing to forgive, I die for you with joy in my heart!’” Crowley paused for dramatic effect. “For those of you keeping up with your notes, that would be ‘Veuillez pardonner mon cher Katte, au nom de Dieu-pardonne moi!’ and ‘Je mourrai pour toi avec joie dans mon coeur,’ if you were wondering.” Maybe it was bragging to include the French, but Crowley liked to show off now and again. Another hand. “Liz?”

“So, wasn’t Hitler, like, I mean, a little obsessed with Frederick the Great?” She asked, pausing to look at her notes mid-question. Crowley had had Liz as a student before, she was always careful with her questions, she liked to make sure she had her facts right before asking. Crowley grinned.

“Another great historical irony, no? How utterly absurd. Sometimes we get stuck seeing history the way we want to, but that’s not fair to those who came before, is it? Certainly bullshit of Hitler to idolize such a historical actor. Me, though? I love the drama.” Some chuckles. “Get out of here, go play in traffic.” Crowley dismissed them, and already was nearly immediately plagued by the murderous butterflies that seemed to take up permanent residence in his gut, Luckily, he had some students to distract him still. He was bent double, tying his shoe, when he heard the call.

“Dr. Crowley?” He glanced up, it was Davis. 

“What’s up?” He asked, standing back up to full height.

“Well, I was just thinking-did Frederick the Great ever marry?” 

“Someone hasn’t been doing their reading.” He chastised, Davis looked abashed.

“Sorry, I’ve been-”

“Swim team captain, and you’re organizing for the AIDS testing drive, I don’t blame you, you’ve got plenty on your plate. Come on, walk with me, we’ll chat.” Davis looked surprised, but followed Crowley down the stairs. He filled Davis in on the finer details, and Davis looked like his curiosity had been sated for the time being.

“Thanks, Dr. Crowley.” He said, grinning up at him. 

“Anytime, listen-the reading is important, but you’ve got a handle on this stuff. If you ever need a recap don’t hesitate to reach out.” He clapped a hand on the kid’s shoulder, and Davis grinned.

“I appreciate it, it’s just a busy start to the semester, no worries.” Crowley nodded. 

“See you next week.” Davis waved enthusiastically and took off towards student housing. Crowley grinned, thinking of what Aziraphale would do if any of his students missed their readings, but then he got a twinge like one of the butterflies had unsheathed a knife, and put it out of his mind. 

He walked a few blocks to where he’d parked the Bentley, and sped off towards Aziraphale’s house. He loved this drive, it was so easy and so pleasant to speed along country roads. The rolling hills offered a fantastic view, and it was still early enough that the cows and horses were still out grazing. The last fireflies of the summer flickered across the landscape. He took a deep breath before turning onto Aziraphale’s street. 

Crowley was loathe to admit it, but he adored Aziraphale’s little country home. Only a little ways from campus, it was certifiably adorable in all regards. Crowley had lived in a city all his life, and the relative quiet of the campus town had been a shock to him at first. He could barely imagine living out here in the country. He did imagine it, though. Despite his best efforts, he imagined it often. He stalked up to the door and rang the bell. He heard a brief shuffle before Aziraphale swung the door open and ushered Crowley inside. 

“Hey.” He said, then mentally slapped himself for being an idiot. 

“Oh do get out of the threshold and come see if you can’t help me save these gougeres, won’t you?” He grabbed Crowley’s arm and dragged him to the kitchen. 

“You’re making gougeres?” He asked, letting himself be bullied into the kitchen. “Why?” 

“Well we have to have something with the wine!” Aziraphale insisted. 

“And you decided to make choux pastry?!” Crowley looked in the pot. It didn’t look at all like choux, it looked like a disaster. “This...isn’t...so bad.” 

“Please help.” Aziraphale begged, clutching Crowley’s arms with both hands now.

“Just...let me wash my hands.” Aziraphale looked delighted. 

“Oh I knew I could count on you, I’ll open some white in the meantime, shall I?” He brushed a hand across Crowley’s back as he walked past him towards the refrigerator. Crowley shuddered. He shouldn’t have agreed to come, after the Neruda and the desperate historical narratives, with the wine? He was bound to let something slip. 

A cork popped, and Crowley jumped. He accepted a glass of white from Aziraphale, and set to work while Aziraphale chatted with him from his spot at the kitchen table. In the end, Crowley had had to start from scratch, but he’d made choux pastry plenty of times in the past, and it was a relatively quick job. He popped them in the oven, and followed Aziraphale when he suggested that they wait in his study for them to finish. 

Aziraphale gestured for Crowley to sit, and he took up his usual spot on Aziraphale’s couch. Aziraphale had quite a comfortable armchair that he generally preferred to sit in, but instead he sat right next to Crowley on the antique sofa. Crowley tensed, but Aziraphale didn’t seem to notice anything unusual. There was a decanter on the coffee table already full of wine, and Aziraphale reached over Crowley’s knees to pour them both a glass. He was much too close. His fingers brushed lightly over Crowley’s as he handed him his glass, and Crowley had to fight hard against the noise that threatened to burst from the back of his throat. 

“So,” Aziraphale began, leaning back a bit but turning towards Crowley. Aziraphale brought his right foot to fold in under his left leg, so his right knee was pressed into Crowley’s left thigh. Two layers of fabric between them. Crowley shifted a little to the right, but Aziraphale’s leg just relaxed further, following him. “How was class?” 

“It was good, we talked about Frederick the Great a bit, they had some good questions. I have a feeling their papers will be good, this group.” He grinned, happy to talk about his students. Aziraphale was hyper focused. If Crowley would just relax, if he could just let himself, for all his sauntering and all his bravado, Crowley was perpetually tense. Aziraphale let his arm drape across the back of the sofa. His hand ghosted over the back of Crowley’s neck, which was steadily turning a lovely flushed color. He let Crowley go on about his students, popping in to ask questions or make comments. His fingers slowly reaching out until they were just touching the fine hairs at the nape of Crowley’s neck. Crowley’s twitched when he made contact, Aziraphale grinned. 

They’d moved on from Crowley’s class and we’re discussing the hiring of the new head of the theology department, Gabriel Peterson. Aziraphale’s hand left the base of Crowley’s neck, he’d been getting steadily closer, the room was warm, Crowley’s cheeks pleasantly flushed from the wine and the nearnes. He set his hand on Crowley’s knee, lightly. Crowley’s eyes went wide, and he abandoned the joke he’d been about to make about Gabriel’s ridiculous suits with a gulp.

Crowley fixed his eyes on Aziraphale’s hand. He took off his glasses with his own shaking hand, folded them deftly. Aziraphale squeezed, kneading, pushing. Crowley shuddered in a gasp. He opened up his mouth as if to speak, seemed to think better of it, and closed it again.

“Crowley-” Aziraphale began.

BEEP BEEP BEEP

“The gougeres.” Crowley whispered, looking away from Aziraphale, glancing towards the kitchen. Aziraphale reached up, and ever so gently took Crowley’s chin in his hands, guiding his face back toward Aziraphale’s.

“Leave them.” Aziraphale instructed.

“Th-they’ll burn.” Crowley stuttered. He couldn’t breathe. He should have just stayed home, gotten drunk off bad vodka.

“We don’t need them.” Aziraphale insisted. 

“It’s too warm, I should turn the oven off.” Crowley was already shifting, standing up. The tension broken, he practically sprinted to the kitchen. The perfect little cheesy pastries looked gorgeous, but his hands shook so badly as he took them out of the oven that a few cracked. He switched the oven off and leaned against the counter, trying to calm down.  
Aziraphale was undeterred. He’d always assumed Crowley was shy about romance, that was clearly why he’d never shared any of what was sure to be many romantic encounters over the years. As handsome as Crowley was, and with what he’d heard from other coworkers over the last several years, he was sure that Crowley dated frequently, but maintained a deep level of subtlety and discretion. He’d just have to be persistent. 

When Crowley returned with a tray of the gougeres, he set them carefully on the coffee table before taking a careful seat next to Aziraphale once again. He knew he was a glutton for punishment, and that wasn’t about to change anytime soon.

Aziraphale kept his hands to himself, until it came time for Crowley to return home, tipsy, but not drunk. They met in the doorway once more, and Aziraphale reached up to cup Crowley’s chin in his palm. Crowley’s eyes fluttered shut, reopening abruptly when Aziraphale brushed his thumb over Crowley’s sharp cheekbone.

“Goodnight, dear. Do drive safely.” Aziraphale smiled at him, and Crowley, desperately, wretchedly, smiled back.

“Will do, angel. Night.”


	11. The Kids Are Alright

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm dying next chapter will be steamier I just love a good shenanigan. fun fact my own modern european history professor was actually 6 puppies inside a pair of wrinkly corduroy pants

“Dr. Will?” Aziraphale whipped around on the sidewalk. Damn. He’d been so close to his office, this simply wasn’t fair. The young woman jogged a few paces to reach him. She was the one who’d been so confident during their first class. He appreciated the confidence, appreciated her unabashedness, but he didn’t have time for questions right that moment. 

“I’m on my way to my office just now.” He pointed out, resuming his march. She nodded. 

“I’m heading to Sullivan Hall, for a meeting.” She grinned at him, he scowled. “If you’re heading that way, I’d love to ask you a question, I promise I’ll be brief.” 

“Brevity is the soul of wit.” Aziraphale reminded her, and she nodded, keeping pace with him.

“You like Hamlet, then?” She asked, grinning, he quirked an eyebrow.

“Is that your question?” He sounded harsh, but she remained undeterred. 

“No, right, well, Dr. Will, I was just wondering, we keep talking about the hamartias that the leads in the plays have, right?” Aziraphale wasn’t about to encourage her, but he had to admit that he was pleased that she remembered what a hamartia was. “Well, I was thinking, do you think that the female leads all have some tragic flaw, too?” He regarded her, not breaking stride as they approached the building. 

“You’re considering this for a paper topic?” 

“No, sir, I already know what I want to do my paper on, I’m just curious.” She clarified. “I mean, Helena clearly carries the tragic flaw of personal uncertainty, Beatrice has stubbornness, they’ve all got one, same as the male leads.” 

“What’s your major?”

“Biology, Dr. Will.”

“A biology student with a genuine curiosity for Shakespeare. I never thought I’d live to see the day. You’re onto something there, though I wonder if it’s better applied to female leads in the tragedies exclusively.” 

She chattered away to him until they reached his office door, and then she continued for quite a bit. Finally, he had to put a stop to it.

“Listen, I see your point, but this is my office and I’ve really got some pressing matters to attend to. Don’t you have a meeting?” She looked at him, looked at his office door behind him, looked at Crowley’s office door, the note still taped to it, and her mouth fell open. 

“This is your office?” She asked, agape. 

“Yes. This is my office. Don’t go spreading that around.” She looked nearly ready to dissolve into a fit of giggles, she was smiling so widely. 

“Oh I won’t.” She squeaked, letting out a laugh that she attempted to disguise as a cough. “I’ll be getting onto my meeting then. Thank you for your time, Dr. Will.”

“I’d say anytime, but that would be dishonest. Your name again?”

“Bea, sir.” She was still grinning as Aziraphale opened his office door. 

“Right, see you in class then.” He shut his door behind her and Bea promptly fell into hysterics. So, Dr. Crowley’s office neighbor, who had inadvertently caused the massive welt on his forehead, who he’d been in love with for years, was Dr. Will. What on earth were the odds? She shook her head, attempting to get a grip, then knocked lightly on Crowley’s office door. 

“It’s open!” She pushed in, Harry and Leo were already there, sitting in cushioned armchairs in front of Crowley’s desk. Dr. Crowley himself was sat in a massive red velvet chair with gold filigree. How very extra of him. “Ah! Bea! Come in and have a seat.” She grinned, and took the middle chair between the two boys. “How have you all been?”

The trio mumbled some general agreeable words and nodded. 

“Are you finding the class alright? How’s the workload? Are you all managing?” He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and leaned forward, elbows resting on his desk, his chin in his palms. 

“Oh yes, it’s really interesting, Dr. Crowley.” Leo smiled, reaching into his backpack and pulling out a notebook.

“Ah, Leo, will you be taking minutes today?” Crowley joked. 

“It only seemed fair to have one of us take notes.” Harry said reasonably, Crowley nodded. 

“So, you were thinking about a topic for your papers, isn’t that right?” He prompted, and the three of them nodded enthusiastically. “Walk me through what you have planned.”

“Right, well,” Bea piped up, “I wanted to do the sexual revolution of the 1960s in West Germany, Leo wanted to do consumerism in East Berlin, and Harry wanted to do American influences on West German culture.” Crowley nodded.

“Well, first of all, you all ought to take my Central European History class before you graduate.” They nodded eagerly, Leo already scribbling away. “But that sounds interesting, I think you could all pull it off. I have some sources that will probably benefit all of you-you ought to look into Julia Sneeringer, she’s done a lot with the Red Light Districts in Germany, and-” He was cut off by a knock at the door. “I’m so sorry, just a moment. It’s open!” The door creaked a bit as it opened, and Aziraphale was quite surprised to find four pairs of eyes on him as he entered Crowley’s office. 

“Ah.” He had a plant in his hand. Crowley looked at him, wide eyed. Bea already had a knowing smile on her face, and she nudged the boys, looking pointedly at the tennis ball on Crowley’s desk. Realization dawned in their eyes as well. Shit, Crowley thought, there goes any chance at subtlety I had. For as much as he adored his students, they were terribly obvious. 

“Aziraphale.” He said, standing up. “Uh, Bea, Leo, Harry, have you all met Dr. Will? He teaches terribly difficult classes in the English department.” 

“Yes, I have Dr. Will for Intro to Shakespeare. Long time no see, sir.” She gave him a little wave. But Aziraphale ignored her in favor of staring at Crowley.

“I thought we weren’t having lunch until 1 today.” Crowley remarked, and Aziraphale nodded.

“Quite right, dear boy. Only, I came across this plant yesterday at market and thought of you.” Aziraphale had, in fact, made a special trip to a greenhouse in order to procure this plant, but he figured a tiny lie would be forgiven. Crowley had only managed to keep his distance for a few hours after the night with the wine and the gougeres, and they’d fallen back into their old routine. Only it was quite the same, for one thing, Aziraphale wouldn’t stop touching him. He did so at every available opportunity, and it left Crowley’s skin feeling raw. For another, he kept popping in at unusual time, catching Crowley off guard, usually chasing him into a corner of his office, talking to him real close and quiet, then sodding off again. 

“A-a plant?” He asked, befuddled. 

“Well, yes, I was reading up on all the lovely things plants can be used to say, and I thought this would be perfect.” He took a few steps forward, glad that Crowley was trapped by the desk and his students. Crowley looked at it. Citronella. Aziraphale passed the pot over the desk, letting his hand linger for just a beat too long over Crowley’s as he handed it over.

“Did you find a mosquito in here or something?” Crowley wondered aloud. 

“What are you talking about?” Aziraphale looked thoroughly bewildered.

“What are YOU talking about?” Crowley echoed, chuckling. The tips of his ears were red. Aziraphale had to try a different route. 

“You look well today, Crowley.” Aziraphale purred, leaning a bit over the desk to get a better look at him. “Your hair looks lovely.” And, with three undergraduates staring on in disbelief, Aziraphale raised his right hand, and ran it through Crowley’s red hair. Crowley made a distressed noise in his throat. 

“I-thank you.” He said, setting the plant down lest he drop it. 

“I’ll see you in a bit, mind how you go.” Aziraphale removed his hand from Crowley’s hair, and used it to brush imaginary dust off of Crowley’s shoulder before turning and exiting the tiny office. Crowley stood for a beat, momentarily dumbstruck, then sat. It took him a minute to reboot, and the students sat, wide eyed, staring at their professor.

“So. Sneeringer. And...and Drakulic.” He began, trying to get himself back on track.

“No no no no no.” Bea interrupted, waving her hands. Crowley looked at her, surprised. 

“What?” 

“That was the tennis ball crush.” Harry insisted, finally laughing. Crowley turned red.

“Don’t make me regret telling you that story.” He said, but he found himself unable to resist laughing a bit, too. It made all the tension feel a little more bearable, like a small release. 

“That was him! I knew it!” Bea cackled. 

“Yes, yes, you’re all terribly smart, now kindly shut it.” Crowley rolled his eyes. “Now, can we get back to the Cold War?” 

“No, I’m sorry, Dr Crowley.” Leo said, and why on earth was the boy still taking notes? Good lord. “Why on earth haven’t you made a move yet?” 

“What?”

“Are you kidding? He was totally flirting with you, sir.” Leo insisted. 

“What?” 

“I mean, Dr. Crowley, I don’t often run my hands through my friend’s hair and then give him a plant. Are you serious?” Harry and Bea roared with laughter.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Crowley put up a hand. “It’s not like that with him, he’s just so giving and kind, that’s why he’s like that.”

“Oh you’re properly hopeless.” Bea said, taking a shuddering breath as she stopped laughing.

“Ah yes, you wise coeds, you.” Crowley teased good naturedly. “Listen, I know when I’m being flirted with, alright?”

“So sorry if this is rude, Dr. Crowley, but…” Bea began.

“Things that start that way are generally rude.” Crowley pointed out, but Bea was undeterred.

“Only, when’s the last time you’ve been on a date?” Crowley laughed out loud. She was brazen, wasn’t she?

“How shockingly rude.” He joked, “it’s been about ten years, if I’m being totally honest, since I started here, at least.” He grinned. “What’s that got to do with anything?” All three of them had their mouths hanging open. Harry came around first.

“Sorry, Dr. Crowley, but if it’s like that...how on earth would you expect to know when you’re being flirted with?” 

“Now that’s a thought that’s going to fester.” He shook his head at them. “My terribly embarrassing love life aside, shall we get back to history? I have more recommendations for you, here.” He insisted, and they nodded. 

He bade them farewell a few minutes before one, and as soon as the office door closed behind them, the three dissolved into laughter once more. Bea sighed deeply as they exited the building.

“Oh this really is too good to be true.”


	12. Doomsday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> whoops. yell at me over at isoundmybarbaricyawp on tumblr. they'll fix it, i promise!!

Aziraphale’s office door was closed, he and Crowley were behind it, enjoying their usual morning coffee. The sunlight streamed in lazily through the gaps in Aziraphale’s curtains. Friday, at last, and Aziraphale was going to make the most of it. Azirphale didn’t date often, not necessarily, but he’d had several respectable flings in his time. There was that lovely visiting French professor, and the guitarist from America. He didn’t properly care about them though, which was why he was perfectly content to watch Crowley bluster and blush himself into a frenzy. It was all about patience, and Aziraphale had nothing but time. Crowley was running one long finger along the lip of the mug. Whenever he had coffee, Crowley tended to clutch the mug with both hands, like he was trying to absorb the heat into his palms. Poor boy was so thin, thought Aziraphale, he was probably cold more often than not. The silence was comfortable, and Crowley looked so relaxed. Aziraphale was pleased with himself.

“Crowley?” Crowley’s eyes flickered to meet Aziraphale’s.

“Mmm?” He had one leg drawn over one of the arms of the chair, some stray strands of his hair falling lightly onto his forehead today. The light through his hair made him look like autumn incarnate. He had a Keats poem that would work to describe him, he was sure.

“Would you like to go out for dinner this evening?” Aziraphale, on the other hand, had his back to the window. The grey in his blonde hair looked shiny and glinted pleasantly when Aziraphale shifted. The way the light streamed in and filtered around Aziraphale made him look like he was crowned in light. It almost hurt Crowley to continue looking. He nodded.

“Alright.” Aziraphale smiled, one of Crowley’s favorites. A gentle, indulgent, generous, kind smile. 

“Alright.” And Crowley smiled back, not the bullshit smile he used with administration, or the patient smile he used with his students, a giddy one, for Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale was once again in front of his Intro to Shakespeare class, his last of the day thank goodness. The one who had Crowley too was sat in the front row, and she looked utterly delighted to be there. Aziraphale fought the urge to roll his eyes. They concluded their reading for the day, a tough one to slog through, as they were making their slow way through King Lear.

“Who can tell me why there’s such a heavy emphasis on blindness in the play?” A few hands. Aziraphale chose at random.

“Well, it’s all about, like, seeing through the plans or not being able to foresee things. But like, when Gloucester loses his sight, he’s able to see, like, all that stuff about Edmund.” Aziraphale thought it was a fine, if meandering summation, and he nodded. 

“Can we take that broader than just the plot, then?” He opened it up again. Chose the tiny one who was in Crowley’s class.

“It’s irritating to us, as readers and viewers, because we can see everything that’s happening, we see all the hints and secrets and references, but when you’re in it it’s harder, and sometimes you just need a push, or change, to see something that wasn’t there before.” Aziraphale nodded. Since when had freshmen become so precocious? 

“Good, good.” And the girl beamed under the praise, Aziraphale rarely gave verbal feedback of that sort. “Please do read the next two scenes before our next class, and those of you who are kicking us off with the sonnets, bring your A-game because I will absolutely cut you off if you don’t impress me. Now, out.” Aziraphale beat the throng out the door, and was back at his office in record timing. He stuck a note onto Crowley’s office door before heading out “AJC-Device-8 o’clock-yours, AZW.” 

When Crowley returned to his office and found the post it, he plucked it from the door and carried it into his office with him. He glared at the citronella as he passed it on his way to his desk. The top drawer of his desk was full of pens, pencils, thumb tacks, and stray rolls of tape, but towards the back of the drawer was a cardboard box in the shape of a coffin. It had been a gift from a student several years ago, before that he’d used a much riskier plastic bag. He pulled it carefully from its hiding place, feeling as pathetic as he ever did when he retrieved the box. He opened it, revealing every note Aziraphale had left him in the ten years they’d known each other. He shook his head, he was absolutely pathetic, but a tradition was a tradition, and he stuck the note from his office door into its place in the box before squirreling it away again. 

He used the hours before he needed to head out to study and get some writing down. He was so absorbed in his work that he hardly noticed night falling around him. The clock tower chiming 7:30 woke him from work-fueled haze, and he stood up. There was no use bothering with his hair, he grabbed his spare toothbrush from his desk drawer, brushed his teeth thoroughly in the hallway bathroom, grabbed his bag, and headed out. 

Device was a little restaurant run by a truly absurd lesbian who’d moved to town several years ago. She was almost certainly a witch, and the food she served reflected it, there were correspondences listed for the ingredients included in the dishes on the menu, and the entire restaurant looked like a cozy little cottage. It was one of Crowley’s favorite spots, if only because they had a truly beautiful old fashioned on the menu that included rosemary and lavender, and Crowley was a sucker for a fantastic cocktail. 

He strolled up right at eight, and the bell tinkled overhead as he entered. He looked around, there was never a host or a greeter working, and he wondered if he’d beaten Aziraphale. Of course, he’d never beaten Aziraphale. 

“Crowley!” He turned and followed the sound of his name to find Aziraphale. Aziraphale’s chosen cocktail, the gin and tonic with the elderflower cordial, was in front of him, and Crowley’s heart clenched when he noticed Aziraphale had ordered his old fashioned already. Damn him. He sat opposite him. 

“Evening, angel.” Crowley said. “Thanks for this.” Aziraphale smiled, and picked up his glass. “What shall we drink to?”

“To you?” Crowley laughed. 

“Absolutely not. To your students?” Aziraphale scowled at him. “Fine, then to Freddie and Oscar?” Aziraphale beamed, and they lightly clinked glasses.

“Cheers.” Aziraphale took a sip.

“L’Chaim.” Crowley agreed, and his eyes fluttered shut as he had a sip. Was there anything better than a fantastic old fashioned?

The pair of them discussed Aziraphale’s class on Shakespeare’s Tragedies for a bit. Crowley was adamant that, despite Aziraphale’s affection for the tragedies, Hamlet was really the only one worth watching and reading.

“He’s just so snarky and extra, it’s the only thing that makes it watchable.”

“I know you’d rather only read Much Ado About Nothing, but not everything can be funny all the time.”

“I beg to differ.” 

It went on like that for much of the main course, this was one of the few restaurants where Crowley would actually be able to finish his plate, and Aziraphale delighted in watching him eat a good meal. Aziraphale ordered dessert, Crowley ordered a third old fashioned and watched him dip his spoon into the ginger creme brulee. The crack of the top seemed to echo in Crowley’s chest. 

They ordered a final round and paid Anathema, who was bustling back and forth between the bar and the tables. She only had about six tables in the whole place, but she kept herself busy. She grinned at the pair of them, her long skirts rustling as she hurried away. They drank slowly, and Crowley found himself leaning towards Aziraphale, his elbows on the table. Aziraphale set his glass down, his cheeks rosy, his eyes alight. Crowley’s hands were clasped together in the middle of the table, and Aziraphale covered both of Crowley’s hands with his own. Crowley’s eyes snapped to the two pairs of hands, and then to Aziraphale’s face. 

“Aziraphale, I ought to-” He began, but Aziraphale silenced him with one word.

“Anthony.” Crowley’s lips parted, and Aziraphale surged across the table, their lips meeting as Aziraphale clutched at Crowley’s hands. Crowley was dumbstruck, and softened only for a brief moment before retreating. Aziraphale swung backwards in his chair as they parted, looking surprised.   
“What the hell are you playing at?” Crowley hissed at Aziraphale. He looked at him, bewildered.

“What do you mean?” Aziraphale asked, reaching out towards Crowley’s hands again, Crowley drew them back. 

“Is this what it’s all been about? Jesus, Aziraphale.” He ran a hand through his hair. “You can’t just, you can’t just-”

“Can’t just what, sweet?” Aziraphale, ever patient, ever understanding, leaned forward, chasing Crowley through the space. Crowley stood, and marched out of the restaurant. Aziraphale, never one to leave something unfinished, followed him out onto the dark street. “Anthony, talk to me.” Crowley whirled around.

“Why are you calling me that?” He demanded, he towered over Aziraphale, the shadowy street seeming to make him taller still. 

“That’s your name, dear.” 

“What was that, in there? Aziraphale, you can’t just-”

“There you are, cutting yourself off again. Tell me.” He demanded, and Crowley felt the edges of his vision go wobbly. 

“You can’t play with me like that, Aziraphale, please don’t.” 

“What on earth do you mean?” But Crowley had already turned to walk away again. “Anthony!” Aziraphale called after him.

“It’s not fair, Aziraphale, I can’t handle this after four whiskeys, just leave it be for heaven’s sake!” Aziraphale stopped trying to jog after him, and watched Crowley stride away from him in the direction of his flat. 

That certainly hadn’t gone to plan. What a strange reaction. Aziraphale decided this deserved a much more thorough investigation, and upon returning to his home, set to work, thinking through Crowley’s conversations with him, wondering where he’d gone wrong. Crowley, on the other hand, lay awake the whole evening, eyes boring holes into the ceiling of his bedroom as he struggled not to cry.


	13. Red Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...whoops. you know I can't keep you guys in suspense for too long, right?? feel free to yell at me over at isoundmybarbaricyawp on tumblr.

Crowley considered cancelling his classes. He considered feigning some sort of illness to throw administration off his tail. He considered faking his own death. But, when it all came down to it, despite the burning and tingling he could still feel on his lips, when he thought of the coffee and the wine and his poor textbooks waiting in his office, he thought better of it. Teaching was the one thing he could think of that always made him feel better. Well, teaching and Aziraphale. 

The morning following the kiss, Crowley paced in his kitchen. He couldn’t understand it. Surely Aziraphale was playing with him. After ten years, he couldn’t imagine Aziraphale feeling anything for someone like him. A hack who cared more about teaching students than actually furthering his own career and reputation. Someone so desperate he’d dropped hints, found excuses to be near Aziraphale for years, just on the off chance Aziraphale might smile at him. He really was pathetic. And now, there was this. 

What happened at Device couldn’t have been genuine. It was a fluke. Too much gin, too good of a meal. And Aziraphale had...well, gotten carried away. Crowley was sure Aziraphale knew how pathetically smitten he was, he hadn’t made a secret of it, not really. And if Aziraphale was feeling particularly affectionate, surely he knew Crowley would be an easy target. A one-off. Something to fumble around, then never speak of it again. And, realizing that perhaps that was all Aziraphale could see him as, it stung bitterly. 

Aziraphale would have his fling, then change his mind about him, and then Crowley would be right back where he’d started. Or, worse, Aziraphale would change his mind about him, and decide never to speak to him again. Crowley felt sick at the thought. 

He was floundering, mind going a hundred different directions. He wondered if he’d ever be able to sleep again, he hadn’t the previous night. It was time for him to go to the university, but Crowley wasn’t nearly ready to leave the security of his kitchen. He’d never been terribly brave. He allowed himself five more minutes of pacing, took a deep breath that did nothing to steady his nerves, and left his flat. 

Aziraphale checked his watch, then peered out of his window to the parking lot again. Crowley was late, and he simply wouldn’t stand for it. He’d had quite enough beating around the bush, and he needed to talk to Crowley, get this all sorted. Aziraphale could say with confidence that in all his experience, he’d never seen that reaction after a kiss. He was worried, perhaps he’d assumed too much of Crowley. He had turned back to his office when he heard the tell-tale screech of tires. He grinned, and began to pour the coffee. They’d get this sorted, he had no doubt. By the time he’d set up both of their coffees, he heard the office door next to his open. He walked carefully the few feet from his desk to Crowley’s office, careful not to spill. Crowley had his back to the door, facing his desk, he was slouched, head down.

“May I come in?” Crowley’s entire body straightened up, he tensed, then slowly turned and nodded. He retreated to his high backed chair, glad that the desk would serve as a barrier. Aziraphale placed the coffees on the desk, and Crowley began to drink his at an alarmingly fast rate. “I think we should-”

“I’m sorry.” They spoke at the same time, but Crowley’s apology shut Aziraphale up.

“What?” He looked startled.

“I said I’m sorry, for, for being so…” He waved a hand vaguely in the air, took another gulp of coffee. “I know you were just, just reaching to fix my collar, when, yeah, so I’m sorry I just-” Aziraphale held up a hand and Crowley fell silent. Aziraphale was looking at him as though he had three heads. 

“I certainly was not.” He knew what Crowley was up to, trying to give him an out, trying to avoid talking about it. “My dear boy, you’re not an idiot. I was trying to kiss you.” 

Crowley made a noise like a wounded animal. “Now, do you want to tell me why that made you storm out of the restaurant, or would you like me to guess until I’ve gotten it right?” Crowley had been grateful for the barrier, but now he realized it was blocking the door.

“I-” He looked down at his hands, set the mug down when he realized how badly they were shaking. “I’m sorry.”

“You’ve said that.” Aziraphale reminded him, “I’m just not sure what for, is this a rejection?”

“I-” Crowley couldn’t find the words. It was too early. “Can we do this another time?” He asked, desperately. Aziraphale considered him. 

“Will you talk with me about this, please?” He asked. “Only, I’ve found I can’t quite get you off of my mind, and I’d like to settle this a little quicker, dear.” Crowley gulped. 

“Right.” He nodded. 

“How about I come over after work tonight?” Crowley couldn’t breathe, but he nodded. “Give you some time to find your words again, then.” He retrieved Crowley’s now empty mug and retreated back to his own office. Crowley, figuring he could be early for class just this once, grabbed his things and left hastily. 

“So we have this burgeoning youth movement that’s closely tied to music, right?” He’s pacing through the rows today, pleased to see his students taking copious notes. “But there’s this moment of young people in Europe pushing back against the authoritarian systems. You know, power to the people, stick it to the man, all of that good stuff. And what we find is authoritarian systems cracking down on traditional musical venues.” He pauses, twiddles a pen in his right hand. “So young people and musicians have to find new spaces to meet, spaces where police won’t go, places where the system can’t touch them.” He grins. “Anyone want to venture a guess as to where they end up? Anyone read ahead in the textbook?” No hands go up. “Well they end up in the Red Light District, of course.” He checks the clock on the wall, time’s up. “We’ll get more into the blending of anti-authoritarian music with the sexual revolution next time. A good excuse to show up to class in the morning. Now, go away.” 

He’s pleased with himself, he can admit it. And he was right, teaching did help. It always did, having a captive audience of interested students who would gladly listen to him rant about history was a perfect release for the nervous energy he’d been storing up all semester so far. His trio was waiting for him as usual. 

“How are the papers coming along?” He asked, grinning.

“The Drakulic is fantastic, thank you so much for that recommendation, Dr. Crowley.” Harry grinned at him, and Crowley nodded.

“I read that in one day, I got so invested. Bea I know you haven’t read the Sneeringer yet, otherwise you’d have had your hand up so quickly today.” Bea grinned sheepishly.

“Sorry, I had a Microbiology exam that’s been taking up about 85% of my brainspace.” He nodded.

“In your own time, it doesn’t worry me.” They walked together to their usual corner. 

“Any updates with Dr. Will?” Leo asked, chuckling a bit. Crowley really had to get a filter with his undergraduates. He quirked an eyebrow at him. “Oh my god there was. What happened?”

“A massive misunderstanding, is what happened.” Crowley replied. “You’re all too invested in my personal life. You ought to get one for yourself.” He teased them. They looked at each other. 

“Well, we’re all dating, so we’ve got that sorted.” Harry said, and Crowley’s eyes went wide.

“What on earth, when did this happen?” He was laughing, his students really never failed to surprise him, at the very least. 

“Last week, after your meeting. We had a chat about it and then went for drinks.” Bea stated matter-of-factly. 

“Just like that?” Crowley cackled.

“Just like that.” Leo agreed. Crowley shook his head.

“Young people.” 

“Smart people.” Countered Bea. He rolled his eyes. 

“Yes, yes, you’re all emotional geniuses. Now go be emotional geniuses somewhere else.” He waved them off, and they scampered away. Honestly. 

Crowley went right home after class. No use dilly dallying around at the office, and he needed to get some space before he saw Aziraphale tonight. He knew if he mozied around the office for too long, Aziraphale would corner him again. He drove home, considered opening a bottle of wine, thought better of it, and settled for reading until Aziraphale turned up. It was half past five when his doorbell rang, and he shut his book, feeling very anxious indeed, and got up to let Aziraphale in. 

Aziraphale had brought wine, of course he had. Crowley took it from him with a word of welcome, and they moved into the kitchen. Crowley poured them a few glasses from a bottle of white, and opened the red Aziraphale had brought, pouring it deliberately into the decanter Aziraphale had given him when they’d first began getting together regularly. (“Really, dear boy, you must have a decent decanter, we aren’t animals.” Crowley had pointed out “Fairly sure animals don’t drink wine at all, angel.”)

They moved nearly silently throughout all of this. Crowley passed Aziraphale his glass, and led him to the living room. He gestured for Aziraphale to sit, only slightly surprised that he opted for a seat on the sofa. Crowley swallowed hard, then sat next to him. They sat there for a moment, bodies angled towards each other. Crowley, much to Aziraphale’s surprise, was the one who finally broke the silence.

“So, let’s talk.” He said, taking a sip from his glass to steel his nerves.

“Yes, I think we rather ought to.”


	14. Body and Soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I TOLD you I couldn't keep you all waiting for long. SORRY about the cliffhanger, forgive me or yell at me, either is fine.  
> Can you tell I'm weak for shakespeare?

Crowley drummed his fingers on the wine glass. He felt like his heart was in his throat, it made it nearly impossible to breathe. How was he supposed to bring this up? How was he supposed to explain himself. Surely, surely, Aziraphale would be appalled, disgusted, wouldn’t want anything to do with him. He opened his mouth several times, only to shut it again. Where were the right words? He could bullshit with the best of him, had proved it several times over when the department chair asked him why nobody ever seemed to do poorly in his classes. Why couldn’t he just bullshit Aziraphale? He opened his mouth again, but luckily, Aziraphale seemed to have found words that worked for him.

“I wish you’d tell me what made you react that way at Device.” He said, he set his wine glass down on the coffee table, and his hands met in the center of his chest in that nervous, fussy, way Aziraphale often had about him. 

“I’m sorry.” They were the only words he had left, apparently. And he was, sorry to be so pathetic, sorry that this was the last time Aziraphale would want to speak to him, sorry for all of it. 

“You don’t have anything to apologize for, but I’d like you to tell me.” Damn, Aziraphale, why on earth did he have to be so gentle? Crowley wished he’d just get it over with.

“I…” Crowley took another sip of wine, set the glass down, took off his glasses, and stared at his hands, his long fingers were curled up on his lap, fingertips facing the ceiling. An unconscious gesture of supplication, of repentance. “I wanted it to be...something different.” Aziraphale considered that for a moment.

“Do you mean you didn’t want me to kiss you?” He asked, businesslike almost, and Crowley’s eyes shot wide. How on earth could Aziraphale think he’d ever not want that? 

“No!” He insisted. 

“No, you didn’t want me to kiss you.” Aziraphale clarified. “Well, Crowley, if you felt like that you could have just said so, no need to string me along this way-”

“String YOU along?” Crowley demanded, how on earth had that gotten turned around so absurdly? How utterly ridiculous. “No, Aziraphale, no.” 

“Then what?”

“I wanted you to kiss me, it’s just that…” Crowley couldn’t believe that the words were going to come out of his mouth, all of his instincts of self preservation were screaming at him to run far away and never speak to Aziraphale again, to just let it go. But where was he to run to? He was in his own flat. He considered for a moment that Aziraphale had probably planned it like this, and that made his heart race. 

“What is it?” Aziraphale prompted, and made an effort to reach toward Crowley, thinking better of it halfway through, probably best not to, right at this moment. Crowley looked like he was an inch away from shattering, it worried Aziraphale to no end.

“It’s just that I’ve always wanted you to kiss me, and I wanted it to be real.” He confessed it in a rush, like he’d collapse if he didn’t get it out. His face was turned away from Aziraphale, looking at the snake plant in the corner of the room. It was too much to look at him, he could feel his heart beating in his fingertips, behind his eyes, in his toes, but he knew his heart was in Aziraphale’s hands. It would be okay, with him, if he crushed it. He would take it. He took a deep shuddering breath. “I’m sorry, Aziraphale, you can leave, if you want, I promise I won’t-” Aziraphale bridged the gap, grasping Crowley’s chin, turning his face gently back towards him. 

“What do you mean, always?” Crowley’s eyes were screwed shut, and Aziraphale ran a gentle thumb over Crowley’s eyelids, a silent request. Crowley obeyed, opening his eyes, and Aziraphale moved his hand to the top of Crowley’s head, his thumb stroking his brow, moving so slowly that Crowley couldn’t be sure it was moving at all. He was shaking, and Aziraphale longed to hold him, to cover him, but he knew they probably ought to talk this out first. Aziraphale was worried that any move he made would result in Crowley reacting like he had at Device, and he desperately wanted this settled.

“Since...since we met. I’ve...been...I’ve been in love with you since the day you told me you pissed off the dean. I’ve been in love with you every day since then, and I can’t perceive of a future when I’m not in love with you. And I’m SORRY, because I know it’s not like that for you, but-” Aziraphale’s fingers left Crowley’s brow and traveled to his lips, Crowley shut up abruptly, and Aziraphale could feel his breath ghosting over his fingertips.

“It’s my turn to apologize.” It was a murmur, so utterly gentle and kind, Crowley’s heart was breaking before he could finish his sentence. His vision went wobbly, his eyes burned, but he willed himself to be calm, he could take this, he knew what was next, had been anticipating this eventually for ten years. “I’ve kept you waiting, dearest, and I’m sorry I’m a little bit behind you.” Crowley leaned away from him, then, but Aziraphale’s hand chased him, he placed it gently on the crook of Crowley’s neck, felt him shiver, felt his pulse thrum, he was rarely so warm.

“You’re...behind me?” Crowley repeated, unable to find new words of his own.

“I’ve only just caught up. I feel the same, dearest, I do. I’m sorry I’ve kept you waiting, it was terribly cruel of me. Only I hadn’t realized.” He confessed. It was easy for him, like saying the alphabet. It had been so hard for Crowley, like it was being squeezed out of him, years of Not Saying translated into one single moment of Saying. 

“You…” Crowley cleared his throat. “You can’t be serious. I’m...I’m ME.” He looked so utterly dejected, and Aziraphale, frankly, couldn’t help himself any longer. He raised himself up on his knees on the couch, so he was hovering just a bit over Crowley, and took his face in his hands. Crowley’s face, words couldn’t describe. He’d need Keats, Tennyson, Shakespeare, all the greats. Aziraphale could have looked at him like this for hours, days, but he knew Crowley needed a little more from him, and he was always willing to give. 

“Yes, dear boy, you are, and that is why you have utterly captivated me.” Much to Aziraphale’s delight, Crowley whined, then immediately blushed. Aziraphale leaned in, paused just before his lips reached Crowley’s. Crowley was so utterly still, and Aziraphale waited, ever so patiently, for Crowley to finally, finally close the gap. Aziraphale kept it chaste, he had rather a bit more to say. “You’re so utterly clever, Anthony,” he said, pressing another kiss to Crowley’s cheek. “So remarkably kind,” one on his forehead. “So wonderfully creative,” his other cheek. “So delightfully surprising.” His lips again. Crowley remained still, disbelief etched on his face, but he was breathing hard, and behind the disbelief, was trust and need. His hands were still glued to his lap. Aziraphale reached down to grasp them, held them tightly, and placed them on his own shoulders. “Touch me, please, Anthony.” He requested.

Crowley surged forward, as if all he needed was the reassurance, the permission. His face, as it approached Aziraphale’s, so full of wonder, so full of disbelief still. His hands clutched desperately at Aziraphale’s cardigan, and he kissed him, deeply this time. Aziraphale expertly bit Crowley’s bottom lip, and Crowley whined again. Crowley was sure his lips would be bruised, but the feeling of Aziraphale’s hands against his waist drove him ever forward. 

It could have been an hour, it could have been a year, but Crowley was brought back to the present by Aziraphale’s hands sliding gently down to his hips. Aziraphale gently guided Crowley, until his back was resting on the arm of the sofa. His hands gripped his hips as his lips travelled to Crowley’s neck, he sucked gently, and Crowley made a lovely noise beneath him. But Crowley’s hands had gone flat against his sweater, no longer gripping tightly. Crowley’s chest was rising and falling rapidly. He found his voice.

“Aziraphale, I-” he cut himself off.

“Dear?” Aziraphale asked, leaning up, giving Crowley a little space. “Are you quite alright?” Crowley’s eyes shot open, pupils wide, eyes a little glazed. Kiss drunk, surely. 

“It’s...Aziraphale it’s been a while.” He breathed, shakily. “I want this, I want it, but could we-” He cut himself off, and Aziraphale leaned forward again, biting on that same tender spot of Crowley’s neck, Crowley sighed, turning just a little tortured as Aziraphale pressed down harder. He leaned back up and kissed Crowley gently on his lips. 

“Slowly, then.” Crowley reached up, kissing him again, as if proving to himself that he could. 

“I’m sor-” Aziraphale interrupted him.

“Peace.” He said. “I will stop thy mouth.” He did, the only way he knew how, and Crowley melted under him, he always did love that play. They parted after a moment. “Plenty of time for all that, dear boy. And that wine really is too fine to go undrunk, shall we?” And Crowley, looking like he hardly dared to believe his luck, nodded.


	15. Not Quite A Freckle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You guys, the comments on the last chapter literally had me in tears. I've never written and posted something like this before, and I was so unsure about how it'd turn out. The last 2 chapters in particular, "Was it too fast? Was it too slow? Did I wreck it by leaving at a cliff hanger? Was it believable?" So really really really thank you for all of the kind words you're all so utterly lovely. I don't...like...edit this nonsense or anything, it's really just a flow and I'm sure if any of you have gone back to reread you'll have seen that I've made tiny changes to typos or continuity errors. So thanks for reading my unedited nonsense. This was sappy. Anyway, planning future chapters and all that, so enjoy as these idiots mess about. <3

Crowley had been anxious the following day. He was, admittedly, usually anxious, but this was particularly directed. How would Aziraphale act around him? How should he act around Aziraphale? Would there be coffee in the morning? Would there be more talking? Or, he barely dared to hope, more kissing? Despite the flighty questions that flitted around in his brain, he got ready for the day with more of a pep in his step than he’d ever had in the mornings. He closed his eyes and hummed as he brushed his teeth, something he could honestly say he never felt the urge to do before. 

Aziraphale felt very pleased with himself indeed as he fixed their coffees that morning. He’d finally gotten Crowley to relax last night, and had left at a respectable hour. He was so dreadfully and deliriously excited about this prospect, and was thrilled to find Crowley more than amenable. He felt drunk on it, and was fairly certain that it wasn’t the lingering effects of the wine from the night before. One singular question still slithered in his mind, however, but he was determined that he would get to the bottom of it before long. Crowley was blasting Somebody To Love again today, and Aziraphale smiled fondly as he peered out the window at the Bentley. It was only a minute before Crowley was swaggering into his office. 

“His hips.” Aziraphale sighed desperately to himself before following him with the coffees. He nudged the office door open with his toe. “Good morning, dear.” Crowley, already with the plant mister in hand, jumped a bit and turned. And...oh goodness. 

“Morning, Aziraphale.” He said, looking thoroughly unsure what to do with his hands. Aziraphale took pity on the poor fellow, setting down the coffees and gently removing the mister from Crowley’s clenched fist. He grasped the front of Crowley’s shirt, raising slightly up on tip-toe, and kissed him silly. They broke apart, both fairly breathless. “Right.” Crowley said, and nodded.

“I do hope that’s alright, dear. Only I’ve been aching to kiss you for quite some time and I feel like I ought to take the liberty when I can.”

“YOU’VE been aching for some time?” Crowley scoffed good naturedly. Aziraphale patted his cheek fondly. 

“Really, Anthony, a little initiative next time will do you a world of good.” Crowley had a mind to show him some initiative right then and there, but the coffee smelled lovely, so he settled in his chair instead. 

After that, it really was fairly easy. They settled into their old flow, keeping up a stream of conversation about anything and everything. It was so easy, like putting on your favorite jacket, like remembering the lyrics to your favorite song, simple, like breathing. Same as always. When it got time for Crowley to head to class, Aziraphale stopped him again. 

“Won’t you kiss me, dearest?” He requested politely. Crowley blushed, never one to deny Aziraphale anything, he obliged. What was supposed to be a brief kiss ended with Aziraphale being backed against the wall, pressed flush against it, thoroughly delighted by this turn of events. They broke apart.

“How’s that for initiative?” Crowley growled, and Aziraphale stood up on tip-toe once more to plant a kiss right on Crowley’s nose. 

“You’re so gorgeous, Anthony.” Aziraphale remarked as if he was commenting on the weather. 

“Shut it.” Crowley rebutted, brain working a bit too slowly to come up with a proper retort. 

“Have you gotten a look at yourself today, dear?” Crowley looked taken aback. He’d assumed he looked perfectly normal, he hadn’t really thought to check.

“Is there something in my teeth or something?” He was paranoid now, his tongue flicking around his mouth. Aziraphale grinned, and leaned forward, kissing a very particular spot on Crowley’s neck. Crowley felt his knees go weak.

“Don’t be ridiculous, you just look exceedingly beautiful today.” Crowley’s face burned, he wasn’t sure how people survived romantic encounters if this was the way they always went, and he promptly blushed again, because he had thought the term ‘romantic encounters’ and wasn’t that just absurd?

“Zira...I-I’ve really got to get to class, you know.” He whispered.

“I’ll see you later on then, dear.” He shooed him out the door and headed into his office, chuckling to himself a bit as he went. 

Crowley pondered as he sauntered towards the building. He didn’t suppose he looked any different than normal, Aziraphale was probably just having him on. All the same, it probably couldn’t hurt to check. Outside of the building, he paused near one of the cars parked on the street, and took a glance. He had to do a double take to be sure he’d seen right. 

“Jesus, Aziraphale.” He groaned, looking closer. On first glance, it looked as though Crowley had perhaps gotten a bit of a cold. His eyes were over-bright, and his lips were actually, properly swollen. His cheeks were flushed, not just from the cool fall air outside. On second glance, however, he spied a rather large, rather dark bruise on his neck, right where Aziraphale had kissed him that morning. Right where, he realized, he’d been so teasingly bitten the previous evening. His heart hammered in his chest. He reached out and touched it, finding it surprisingly tender. A hickey. “God damn it.” There was nothing for it now, he thought, heading in and marching directly to his classroom. He swung the door open and sauntered inside. 

“Alright alright, let’s go ahead and begin to shut up now.” He directed, as if the students hadn’t fallen silent the moment he’d entered. “Let’s talk about West German Youth culture.” 

He’d tried, in vain, to angle his face away from the class whenever possible, but there were more whispers than usual that day and he knew he wasn’t about to get away with this. And when he’d concluded with his usual “so, any questions?” half of the hands in the room went into the air. He rolled his eyes. 

“Yes...Bea?”

“Dr. Crowley...I’m not sure how to ask this...but have you just got a very specifically placed bruise or did you finally hook up with-” She trailed off waving her hands in the air.  
“Honestly, I thought you’d all be more interested in HISTORY by this point in the semester than in some sad professor’s love life.” He scoffed. More hands. “Jesus. Yes, Harry?” 

“That’s hardly an answer, Dr. C.” He pointed out. 

“Don’t make me fail you.” Crowley threatened, and Harry laughed.

“No offense but I actually don’t think you ever would.”

“You’re probably right.” Laughter from the class then. “I’ll let you all speculate wildly. You’ve got to let me keep at least SOME of my cool guy demeanor and reputation, alright?” Some nods, some more titters. “Get out of here, then.” They filed out, not even the trio sticking around, too keen to gossip, in all likelihood. Though he did hear them murmuring to each other on their way out the door, and, although he tried not to listen, one sentence he heard clear as day. 

“Who would have known Dr. Will tops?!” Crowley blushed as red as his hair. Honestly.

He sprinted to the drug store on campus, picked up a tube of red lipstick and some concealer, the cashier was, of course, a former student of his. A senior by now, if he wasn’t mistaken. He rolled his eyes as he paid and apologized for not having any more time to chat before he hurried back to the office. He’d just finished applying it when Aziraphale peered into his office. 

“Zira!” He exclaimed, standing up. Aziraphale chuckled and scooted into his office, sitting in one of Crowley’s chairs. “My students were looking at me as if I’d grown three heads!” Aziraphale only laughed lightly.

“Oh, dear, you’ve covered it up?” He sounded disappointed. 

“I have another class tonight, Aziraphale.” He admonished. Aziraphale had something of a devilish twinkle in his eye as he leaned forward.

“But you looked so absolutely delicious with that mark on you, dear.” Crowley needed to sit down. “And I rather think you liked it, too.” Crowley sputtered. “Come now, dear, do use your words.” Was Crowley actually going to be able to survive this thing with Aziraphale? He honestly wasn’t sure. Aziraphale examined the items on Crowley’s desk. “Lipstick?” He asked, holding up the tube. Crowley nodded.

“Helps with darker patches on skin. You put the lipstick on first and blend a bit, then the concealer.”

“Anthony, you’ve been holding out on me.” Aziraphale accused him, raising an eyebrow. Crowley blushed. 

“I haven’t...not for…not for anything like THIS.” Crowley insisted, rolling his eyes. 

“Then, what?” Aziraphale asked, grinning at him delightedly. 

“Well, before I got my PhD I worked in a high school, remember?” He asked, and Aziraphale nodded, suppressing a shudder. Surely the only thing worse than undergraduates were high school students. “Well, I had to cover up my tattoo when I worked there.” Aziraphale’s eyes went wide.

“Tattoo?!” He gasped, leaning forward in his chair. Crowley had said it like it was no big deal, like he assumed Aziraphale had known. 

“Yes, on my arm, you could see it sometimes when I rolled my sleeves up, better safe than sorry, you know.” He reasoned. “And anyway, I looked up a tutorial and-” Aziraphale waved his hands around in front of him.

“What is it? Can I see it?” He asked, thrilled. Crowley tugged at the collar of his shirt.

“I don’t think so, not, not NOW, anyway, it’s higher up and I’m terribly sorry but I won’t be disrobing in my office today.” His cheeks burned.

“So there’s potential for you disrobing in here some other day?” Aziraphale waggled his eyebrows, and Crowley rolled his eyes.

“You’re incorrigible. Let’s have lunch.”


	16. Capitalization Matters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a bit of a filler and it's a bit short I KNOW but don't worry we'll get juicier soon. Let's all ache for our poor Crowley in the meantime, shall we? Go talk to me at isoundmybarbaricyawp on tumblr.

A Date. The word was capitalized in Crowley’s mind. Aziraphale wanted to take him on A Date. He had asked him. Had just come right out and said it. And sure, they were falling into a routine. One that involved quite a bit of kissing, Crowley having been pushed up against his office door several times this week. And sure, they had had lunch together, coffee in the morning. But this was A Date.

“Anthony?” Aziraphale had purred, and something about him calling him by his name did something to Crowley’s gut. He was never all that articulate. 

“Mmm?” He’d managed, figuring he ought to leave the poetry to Aziraphale, all things considered.

“I was wondering, dear boy, if you might be so inclined as to go on A Date with me this evening.” Aziraphale had capitalized it when he said it, too. Crowley had gulped. 

“A date?” He clarified. They’d had dates before, coffee dates, lunch dates, study dates.

“A Date, yes.” Well, that had cinched it. A Date. Crowley was screwed. 

“I-well, yes.” He’d managed, obviously, did Aziraphale really even have to ask?

“How lovely of you, dear. Shall I pick you up at 8 this evening?” Crowley made a noise of affirmation, and that had been that.

Now, however, Crowley couldn’t remember why on earth he’d agreed in the first place. He checked his watch, it was already seven, and he could hardly count on Aziraphale of all people to be fashionably late. He had showered, at least that was taken care of, and had carefully applied a touch of cologne. He had put on a pair of underwear. And that was it. He stood in front of his closet, bare but for socks (dark grey, patterned with black snakes), underwear (black, tight), and his watch (old, his grandfather’s), and tried not to panic. He’d seen Aziraphale before, Aziraphale knew what he looked like. It shouldn’t be this hard to get dressed. He pawed through his shirts again. Why didn’t he own anything that was any good? He groaned, before sitting down heavily on the floor of his bedroom, legs sticking out to either side of him, feeling thoroughly pathetic. He gave it up as a bad job a few moments later, and returned to his bathroom. His hair. People usually did something with their hair before a date, right? He ought to do something, ought to make an effort.   
He peered at his reflection, his glasses were lying in wait on his bedside table, he had taken them off to shower, so his vision left something to be desired. All the same, he could see himself in the bathroom mirror, still fogged around the edges from his too-hot shower. He ran his hands through his hair, it stuck out to all different directions, like it normally did. He fluffed it to one side, then to the other. He wriggled his nose at his reflection, and, thoroughly disheartened, fluffed his hair back up to its normal unruly state. He sighed. It was fairly hopeless. He retreated back to his bedroom and collapsed dramatically upon his bed. He stayed there, all spread like a starfish, for quite a while, contemplating just hiding in his closet rather than trying to find an outfit in it again. He was jolted out of his reverie by a loud knock.

Crowley sat bolt upright, checking his watch so frantically he knocked his funny-bone against his bed frame. 

“Shit!” he rubbed his elbow. “Shit!” He repeated, taking in the time. It was 7:45. Leave it to Aziraphale to show up fifteen minutes early for A Date. He threw on his robe and rocketed to his front door, his socks sliding on his tile floors. He threw open the door, and there was Aziraphale. Dressed in a beautiful cream jacket and a ridiculous tartan bow tie. Crowley was hit with Aziraphale’s beautiful cologne, and then he was hit with the fact that Aziraphale was holding flowers. He looked up at Crowley from the stoop, taking in Crowley’s frantic eyes and half-dressed state. He laughed out loud.

“Did you fall asleep?” Aziraphale sounded utterly delighted.

“Stop it.” Crowley insisted, stepping back, Aziraphale followed him inside his apartment. “I’ve been having an existential crisis.”

Aziraphale gently shut the door behind him, and folded his arms across his chest. He was still holding the flowers. Roses. Good lord. “Oh? What about?”

“The disaster of humanity designing clothing.” He informed him. “Trust you to arrive early. Give me, just, ten minutes, please.” He left Aziraphale chuckling in the kitchen, sprinting back into his bedroom. He threw open the closet, grabbed the first shirt his hand landed on. He threw it on, doing up the buttons as carefully as possible but working desperately quickly. “Pants, pants, pants.” He threw open his drawer and pulled out a pair of skinny jeans, He wiggled into them. “Fuuuuuucking hell.” He toed on a pair of sneakers. He had no clue what he looked like, he couldn’t care anymore. He had clothes on, that’s honestly all that mattered to him. He put his glasses on and hurried back into the kitchen. He was shocked to find it empty.

“Zira?” He called, looking around. Maybe he’d decided to go home after finding Crowley so utterly in hysterics. He checked his watch, 7:59. He sighed, leaning against his counter, his head thudding back against one of his cabinets. Seconds ticked by, he was hopeless. Then, another knock at the door. He sighed again, went to open it.   
Aziraphale stood on the stoop once more, still with the damned roses in hand. He smiled at Crowley, who stood dumbfounded in the doorway.

“It’s 8:01.” Aziraphale pointed out. The bastard. He offered the roses. “For you, gorgeous.” He stepped up, and Crowley stepped aside. Aziraphale met him in the doorway, kissing him gently on the lips. “Thought perhaps you could use a do-over.” Crowley grinned like an absolute idiot, struggling to find his tongue. 

“Let me, I’ll just put these in water.” He took the flowers, looking down at them. “They’re beautiful, thank you.” He went back into the kitchen, grabbed his one and only vase from out of the topmost cabinet above his refrigerator. When the roses were set, he returned to Aziraphale, stooping a bit and kissing him again. ‘Thanks for the do-over.”

“You look amazing.” Aziraphale said, and he was so earnest that Crowley was nearly inclined to believe him.

“You look perfect.” 

“No more existential crises tonight?” Aziraphale asked, the quirk of his eyebrow was just this side of too snarky. 

“I’ll do what I can.” 

“Good, then, shall we?” Crowley nodded, eagerly, and Aziraphale took his hand in his, kissing the back of Crowley’s hand before leading him back out of the apartment.


	17. Shall I Lie In Your Lap?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well SOMEONE is a slut for shakespeare!! (It's me). Sorry for the brief interlude where i WASNT posting on the daily, some nonsense came up but I'm BACK BABY!!! Yell at me over at isoundmybarbaricyawp on tumblr. PS I've been listening to the radio bbc hamlet with Michael Sheen as Hamlet and i s2g it's...moving. love yall as always

They left the apartment and stepped onto the high street. Aziraphale let go of Crowley’s hand, and Crowley was momentarily devastated, but he simply linked their arms together as they turned right, towards the main street of the tiny town.

“Where are we headed, angel?” Crowley asked, falling in stride with Aziraphale. He’d assumed Aziraphale would be driving, but perhaps he was mistaken. For a moment, he thought Aziraphale wouldn’t answer him, would keep him guessing, but Aziraphale only kept him in suspense for a moment.

“Well, dear, I thought we’d see a show. Did you know the playhouse just started a new run of a very daring and delightful play.” Crowley perked up at that, curious. Perhaps it was a student’s script, they did that sometimes. 

“Oh, that sounds lovely.” He grinned a bit, the nerves in his chest settling somewhat. 

The playhouse was an old, converted barn. The ivy growing up the sides of the building gave the impression that it might be dank and derelict, but the inside was anything but. The whole theater gave off a warm glow. They entered together, the soles of Crowley’s sneakers bouncing pleasantly on the soft burgundy carpet. Crowley attempted to merge to the right, towards the ticket line, but Aziraphale kept a tight hold of his arm.

“Angel, shouldn’t we go-?” Aziraphale cut him off.

“Honestly, my dear, how unprepared do you think I am?” He reached into his coat pocket with his free hand and produced two tickets. Crowley flushed. 

“Oh, well, I’ll pay you b-” The withering look Aziraphale fixed him with was quite enough to shut Crowley up. He settled for kissing Aziraphale delicately, instead. Aziraphale handed his tickets to the young woman standing before the double doors.

“Thank you, enjoy Dr. Will.” Aziraphale nodded, even offered half a grin.

“Former student of yours?”

“I do believe she was.” Aziraphale pulled him along, they were in the third row from the front. When they reached their seats, Aziraphale quickly swiped up the playbill before Crowley could have a chance to pick it up. 

“What’s that about?” He said gesturing to the pair of playbills in Aziraphale’s lap.

“Don’t want to spoil the surprise.” Aziraphale was practically wiggling with excitement. They’d seen shows together before, of course. Aziraphale loved the theater, he always said it felt as though he were stepping back in time. 

“I can just look at the ones next to us, Zira.” Crowley pointed out. And Aziraphale, Dr. Will, the one who students fear immensely, the one who makes department chairs quake in their boots, Aziraphale pouted at him.

“Oh, but you wouldn’t, will you, dearest? It’ll spoil it!” Crowley sighed, making an effort to look very put upon indeed, but reached over and grasped Aziraphale’s hand, which had been resting ever so temptingly on his knee. Aziraphale grinned. “Oh I knew you wouldn’t.” Aziraphale leaned up and kissed him on the cheek.

As the theater filled in, Crowley did his level best to ignore the temptation to look to the side and find out what, exactly, was going to be played this evening. It was easier than he expected, however, as Aziraphale was keeping up a near constant stream of conversation, and he found it very difficult to look anywhere else.

“Do you know, Crowley, I did theater for a while when I went to university.” He mentioned, and his eyes twinkled when he looked at Crowley. Crowley’s gut clenched. Honestly how did anyone in love ever get anything done? All he wanted to do was kiss him. 

“Is that so?” Crowley prompted, happy to listen to Aziraphale talk. 

“Oh yes. And do you know, even though I’m not going anywhere near the stage tonight, I still get this little strange anticipation before I see a show. Almost like I’ll be a part of it. Do you ever feel like that?” Crowley thought back to several minutes ago, when he was standing in his underthings in front of his closet.

“I suppose I do.”

“You’ll like this, Anthony. Do you know one of my students told me this production was coming up?” Crowley looked at him, eyes wide.

“You took a student’s suggestion?” He said, voice dripping with disbelief.

“Well, it turns out she’s one of your students, too.” He supplied, helpfully. “And it was just so perfect, what they’re playing tonight, I couldn’t resist.”

“Which student would that have been?” Crowley asked, amused. He had an inkling.

“Oh it was some sort of-Jay? Elle? Some letter.”

“Bea?” Crowley laughed out loud, squeezing Aziraphale’s hand. Aziraphale nodded.

“That’s the one.”

“Of course it was.” The lights above them flickered, and Aziraphahle squeezed Crowley’s hand again in excitement. The hush fell over the theater quickly, and soon enough the curtain rose to reveal a young man standing along on stage, shivering slightly. The stage was dark, but illuminated slightly as another man entered. Crowley recognized the new one, he was a history major, but he hadn’t had him in class. He grinned. 

“Who’s there?” The newcomer called, and the other man turned. 

“Nay, answer me: stand and unfold yourself.” Crowley, realizing the game all at once, let his head tilt back and thud against the back of his chair. The pair on stage continued their dialogue as Crowley turned to glare at Aziraphale.

“Hamlet?!” He demanded. Aziraphale tore his eyes away from the stage to look at Crowley. He patted Crowley’s knee with his free hand.

“Not yet, dearest, that’s Francisco and Bernardo. And oh, here’s Horatio.” He turned back to the stage. Crowley rolled his eyes and followed suit. But oh, that was Harry! He grinned a bit at that, he’d be a good Horatio. Not that Crowley knew this play. Not at all. 

The play continued, and when Hamlet appeared in the next scene, spitting out “A little more than kin, and less than kind.” Aziraphale squeezed Crowley’s hand again. Crowley let his gaze soften, and he turned slightly towards Aziraphale. Now that was far more interesting than the dreary play on stage. Aziraphale was enraptured, hanging onto every word as if he didn’t have the entire play memorized. 

Around the scene of the play, Crowley began to absentmindedly trace patterns on the back of Aziraphale’s arm with his free hand. He watched as Aziraphale’s eyes fluttered slightly at the first brush, and grinned. 

The actors were creditable, and apparently had a great deal of stamina, considering they plowed right through without intermission. When Horatio and Fortinbras had given their final speeches, Aziraphale was the first to burst into applause, dropping Crowley’s hand for the first time since they’d sat down. Crowley applauded dutifully, but let out a whoop and a cheer when Harry took his bow. Harry spotted him, it was a small theater, and grinned sheepishly. 

When all was said and done, Crowley attempted to glare at Aziraphale again, but he was smiling so brightly he found he couldn’t quite manage it. Couldn’t even manage a glower. Quite the contrary, he smiled back at him.

“Oh, Anthony, what did you think?” Crowley shrugged, trying to keep up the facade. He turned to lead Aziraphale back out, but Aziraphale grasped his shoulder. Crowley turned, and Aziraphale held him still despite the other audience members filing out around them. “Didn’t you love it?” Crowley thought of Aziraphale’s face in the darkness of the theater, laughing and gasping and getting all teary eyed. He reached out, touched Aziraphale’s cheek. He leaned down slightly to kiss him deeply.

“Yes, I think I did.” Aziraphale, the bastard, looked absolutely too smug for his own good. 

They stopped when they reached the cool night air. Autumn had fallen fast, and it was brisk. Crowley, in his tight and thin shirt, shivered a bit in the cold. 

“A night cap?” Aziraphale asked, gesturing to the pub across the street. Crowley grinned, he could certainly do with one. He nodded, and Aziraphale led the way across the street. Once they were posted up at the bar, he turned to Aziraphale.

“One of my students was in that show. One of Bea’s boyfriends.” He told Aziraphale. The bartender brought him a boulevardier, and he cheersed Aziraphale quickly.  
“Yes, Bea mentioned something along those lines I believe.” He nodded sagely, taking a sip of his own gin and tonic. 

“I wish I’d have known earlier, I would have brought flowers, a card, something.” He said, rambling a bit. “Perhaps we can catch another showing, now that I won’t be so surprised.” Aziraphale turned to look incredulously at Crowley. Crowley, realizing his mistake, tried to backtrack. “You know what, on second thought-” But Aziraphale was having none of it.  
“You liked Hamlet!” Aziraphale wiggled with absolute delight. Crowley scowled.

“I like you.” Crowley corrected, then promptly blushed scarlet. Aziraphale seemed pleased enough with this reply. They talked and joked for a while, and Crowley relaxed further into his seat. Aziraphale was so bright, it almost hurt to look at him sometimes, but Crowley felt so utterly delighted to be near him, on A Date. A real and proper date, that he found his worries and insecurities slowly slipping away. 

“Anthony, I was wondering if you might be able to answer a question that’s been bothering me for quite some time.” Crowley tensed, just a fraction, but of course Aziraphale noticed. “It’s nothing bad, sweet.” He reached over and covered Crowley’s knee with his palm. 

“Course, answer anything you’d like me to, Zira.” He said, startled by how honest the statement was, how vulnerable it made him sound. Aziraphale looked pleased.

“Before, when we were in your flat, back when we first-” He gestured between them, and Crowley nodded his understanding. “You said it had been a while.” Crowley’s cheeks burned, and he hastily took another sip of the boulevardier. He made a noncommittal noise of understanding. “Well, do you mind me asking how long, dearest?” Crowley tore his gaze from the rim of his glass to look at Aziraphale. Aziraphale was startled by how vulnerable Crowley looked. His eyes were wide and open and honest. It made Aziraphale’s heart clench. He never wanted Crowley to look guarded again. Crowley took a deep breath.

“It’s been...about ten years.” He offered, and promptly tried to look away when he heard the small intake of breath from beside him. Aziraphale gently reached out, touching Crowley’s far cheek and turning his face back towards him.

“Since-” Crowley just nodded.

“Been pining after you for a while, didn’t seem right to-” Aziraphale silenced him with a kiss. Crowley whined in the back of his throat as Aziraphale’s tongue traced his bottom lip. They broke apart after only a minute, but Crowley was panting. “Perhaps we should-?” Crowley gestured towards the door.

“Yes, I think that would be best.”


	18. A Thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> LISTEN.  
> I'm actually properly blushing as I post this please for the love of all that is holy let me know what you think. It's nearly shabbat and it IS a mitzvah to...do something like this on Shabbat. So. anyway. If it's terrible please do let me know oh my good lord.

Crowley’s heart thudded in his chest the entire walk home. It wasn’t far, only a few blocks, and halfway through Aziraphale slipped his arm around Crowley’s waist, pulling him close. 

Crowley, is, at his heart of hearts, a romantic. No one can deny it, and Crowley had been delighting in the ache of this unrequited love for quite some time. He wouldn’t tell Aziraphale, but if he happened to watch a romantic comedy or two on Sunday afternoons, who would be the wiser? It was nice, every once in a while, to indulge in seeing fierce loves played out on his tiny television set. So, Crowley had certain indentations in his heart, scenes he couldn’t forget from these movies. So when faced with an opportunity to put one of these concepts into practice, well, who could blame him for going for it? 

Crowley put his hand into Aziraphale’s back pocket, his cheeks burning furiously. Aziraphale somehow managed to pull him even closer, his thumb looping through one of Crowley’s belt loops. He hummed a bit as they walked, taking great care not to trip over each other’s feet. 

When they reached Crowley’s flat, Crowley unlocked his door with a shaking hand, he felt as though his heart was in his throat. He trusted Aziraphale to follow him as he moved into the kitchen.

“Wine?” He asked, turning towards the door again, where Aziraphale was wiping his feet considerately. 

“Yes, please.” Crowley poured, and led Aziraphale to his study. They sat together on the couch.

“What shall we drink to?” Crowley asked, charging his glass. 

“To good things, and to those who wait for them.” Aziraphale didn’t give Crowley and time to protest, he simply tapped his glass and drank. Crowley, face now veering dangerously toward scarlet, followed suit. They drank, and Crowley tried to find his voice.

“I thought Harry was good, in the...in the show.” Aziraphale set down his wine glass, a leg came up onto the couch, his knee resting against Crowley’s hip. 

“Which one was he, dear?” Aziraphale asked, his hands travelling along the length of his own legs. One reached Crowley’s hip, and he began to knead and press. Crowley gulped.  
“Horatio, he was good, wasn’t he?” He managed.

“Oh, splendid, sweet. Simply splendid.” Aziraphale leaned forward, kissing Crowley gently before retreating once again. “Anthony.” It wasn’t a question, but Crowley responded as if it was.

“Yes?” 

“I think perhaps you ought to put down your glass.” Crowley looked momentarily puzzled, but did as Aziraphale instructed, leaning forward to place his glass on the coffee table. As soon as he’d done so, Aziraphale surged forward again.

He kissed Crowley deeply, and Crowley, who still hadn’t gotten used to the fact that Aziraphale was now kissing him regularly, was just as shocked as he had been the first time. He mouth fell open, and Aziraphale took advantage of the opportunity. He licked into his mouth, biting down on Crowley’s lower lip. Crowley moaned deeply. Aziraphale’s hand came up to grasp the back of Crowley’s neck, and he smiled into the kiss when he noted that Crowley’s hands were still glued, once again, to his sides. Crowley, to his credit, grinned back at him. They broke apart, Crowley’s glasses were askew upon his face. Aziraphale gently reached up and removed them, folding them carefully and reaching forward to place them on the coffee table. He reached forward to cup Crowley’s chin, his pupils were blown wide. Aziraphale ran a hand through his own curls, grinning at Crowley.  
Aziraphale leaned back, and reached forward to grasp Crowley’s shirt. Crowley shuffled forward a bit, looking unsure but utterly enthusiastic. Aziraphale rolled his eyes.

“Honestly, dear boy.” He reached down, and guided Crowley’s legs so that they were bracketing his own. When Crowley was firmly on his lap, he grasped his hands, placing them on his shoulders. Crowley had long since given up on not being an absolute wreck, grasped Aziraphale’s shirt desperately. He looked away, thoroughly embarrassed to be sitting on someone’s lap, for goodness sake. Aziraphale, of course, would have none of it. “Won’t you look at me?” He requested, and Crowley, who had never denied Aziraphale anything, did. His hands worked into Aziraphale’s shirt, an anxious sort of tic. Aziraphale’s hands found their way to Crowley’s hips, and he smiled, almost wickedly, up at him. 

“You’re so-” Crowley began, but Aziraphale interrupted him, kissing him furiously. 

Crowley whined, he felt so vulnerable, flayed, raw. Nowhere to hide, no glasses to obscure his eyes, no pretenses and no office door to close. He was sat, hard and gasping, on Aziraphale’s lap, and he wondered briefly who he must have been in a past life to warrant such a blessing in this one. He whimpered as Aziraphale’s mouth travelled to his jawline, to his neck. He nipped and sucked, and if Crowley hadn’t been so utterly enraptured he might have rolled his eyes. Someone certainly had a fixation. 

“Someone certainly has a fixation.” Crowley breathed. His breathing stuttered and he cried out sharply as Aziraphale bit down, hard. 

“Mmmmm, can you blame me?” Aziraphale purred. “You’re so expressive, I can’t help it.” He ran a hand down Crowley’s back while he spoke, and Crowley shivered. “You’re so good, Anthony. So open and patient for me.” His hands settled again on Crowley’s thighs. And Crowley gasped, panted. His hips stuttered, and Aziraphale grinned. “I rather think you like that.” He noted, as if he was commenting that it looked like rain. “You like that I think that you’re divine, that I think you’re so utterly gorgeous, so vulnerable and so willing.” Crowley’s forehead fell against Aziraphale’s, and he held his fingers to Aziraphale’s lips. 

“You probably ought to stop that.” He breathed. Aziraphale, in response, rolled his hips teasingly beneath Crowley. 

“Why’s that, love?” He asked as Crowley groaned breathily. “Surely you can’t be so close already? It’s been quite some time for you, you’ve been awfully patient, and I have to much to say to you.” Crowley couldn’t help it, he captured Aziraphale’s mouth again. His hands moved from Aziraphale’s collar, but Aziraphale was ahead of him. His hands were fiddling with Crowley’s top button, and as Crowley’s hands reached Aziraphale’s collar, he pulled it undone. He made quick work of his shirt, pushing it off Crowley’s shoulders. He had been so awfully curious, since that day in Crowley’s office, and he didn’t waste any time finding Crowley’s tattoo. A snake, an apple in its mouth, wrapped around Crowley’s bicep and travelling to his forearm. He gasped, stroking the length of the snake admiringly. “It’s lovely.” Crowley blushed.

“I think you’re probably wearing too many layers.” He remarked, and Aziraphale chuckled, but obliged him, shedding his jacket and his shirt, looking at Crowley fondly. Aziraphale was so beautiful that Crowley sat, dumbstruck, for quite a few moments. Aziraphale’s blonde hair, speckled with grey, laid on his chest as well. He was broad and soft, and Crowley thought he could live full lifetimes just...looking, examining, gazing, at this expanse of skin beneath him. He took a deep shuddering breath. 

“Shall we move, dearest?” Crowley nodded enthusiastically, and attempted to get off of Aziraphale’s lap without making too much of a fool of himself. He pulled Aziraphale up, and led him by the hand to his bedroom. He toed off his shoes once he crossed the threshold, and Aziraphale did the same. Crowley turned, and Aziraphale hooked his thumbs into Crowley’s belt loops, pushing him ever so gently to the bed. When the backs of Crowley’s knees brushed against his duvet, he spun them around so that Aziraphale’s was backed against the bed. Crowley kissed him. 

“Can I?” He asked, his hands moving to Aziraphale’s belt. 

“Anything you’d like, love.” He made quick work of the belt, and quickly removed his trousers. He hesitated, his hands hovering over Aziraphale’s respectable maroon boxer briefs.

“I...can I?” He asked again, and Aziraphale kissed him again.

“So polite. Enthusiastic consent heartily given.” Crowley didn’t need to ask a third time, he fell to his knees readily, and Aziraphale’s eyes fluttered shut. “Oh.” He gasped, breathily and quiet. Not quite what he had expected, but Crowley was always one to surprise him. He sat, on the edge of the bed, and gasped again as Crowley pulled his last layer down, freeing his cock. Crowley, having always been a bit of a go-getter, wasted no time whatsoever. He wrapped a hand around his length, using his free hand to steady himself on Aziraphale’s knee. In a gesture that Aziraphale found truly moving, he kissed the tip of Aziraphale’s cock reverently before swallowing him down. 

“Oh, Anthony.” Aziraphale sighed, he was breathy and gasping in minutes. And his hands found their way to Crowley’s mess of hair. He gave an experimental tug, and the moan that Crowley let out reverberated all the way to Aziraphale’s core. He gasped again. “You’re so perfect, so good at this, lord, oh oh-” He kept up a steady stream of words, and Crowley’s brain rather short circuited. “I’m going to, oh, Anthony, I’m-” Crowley moaned his approval, and Aziraphale let go as Crowley’s tongue laved around his tip once more.  
Crowley wiped his mouth, but was given no respite. Aziraphale hauled him up, and Crowley barely even noticed his knees cracking. Aziraphale quickly divested him of his trousers, and Crowley stood before Aziraphale, bare but for his socks and his watch. Aziraphale looked at him, hungrily, before pushing him gently to lie on the bed. He ran his hands across Crowley’s chest, before letting them come to rest on his hips. Crowley’s hips, surely, must have been sculpted by something divine. They jutted out, demanding attention. 

“If you thought I had a preoccupation with your neck-” Aziraphale trailed off, leaning down to kiss, lick, suck, bite at Crowley’s left hip. Crowley mewled, desperately. Having satisfied his curiosity for now, Aziraphale travelled up Crowley’s body, his mouth leaving a hot trail wherever he ventured. Crowley gasped as Aziraphale kissed him again. He whined as Aziraphale’s hand travelled up and down Crowley’s side, brushing his hip, his stomach, his ribs, his shoulder, and back again. “Tell me what you want.” Aziraphale requested, and Crowley just whined. Aziraphale tutted, sucking a spot into the crook of Crowley’s shoulder. “Use your words, dear.” 

“Touch me, please, please.” He vaguely knew that he was actually begging, but he couldn’t be less fussed about that fact. 

“Oh, I rather thought I was.” Aziraphale teased, resting his hand gently on Crowley’s stomach. 

“Please, Aziraphale.” He insisted, and reached his hand down to do it himself. Aziraphale caught his wrist, and brought it briefly to his lips before pinning it to the bed firmly. 

“Ah, I see.” Aziraphale finally, blissfully, reached down, and Crowley’s eyes fluttered shut. “Eyes on me, darling, I think.” He said, and Crowley’s eyes shot open. Aziraphale’s touch was electric, and Crowley forced himself to maintain eye contact as Aziraphale brought him to the edge. 

“So beautiful.” Aziraphale whispered, and Crowley crested, hard, in Aziraphale’s palm. He shook, and Aziraphale grinned as he kissed him deeply, collapsing next to him on the bed. He placed a hand on Crowley’s chest and felt him inhaling and exhaling. 

“Well.” Crowley said, eyes closed. “That was a thing.”


	19. Asking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not nearly as steamy as the last chapter.  
> Honestly, will this fic ever end?  
> Yes. yes it will.  
> Do I have about 9000 ideas for side fics after this one?  
> Yes again.  
> Yell at me over at isoundmybarbaricyawp on tumblr please and thank you

On Thursday afternoon, Crowley taught a History of Judaism class. It was full of History majors and Jewish Studies majors, one of the only classes that qualified as a dual fulfillment in different majors. It took place twice a week, and while Crowley loved his freshman, and enjoyed the discussions in his Central European History course, he looked forward to these classes the most. Today, in particular, they were discussing the Chaney, Goodman, and Schwerner murders that took place in 1964, and discussing the concept of dissent in relation to Judaism. Crowley had finished his direct instruction and leaned back against his desk, waiting for the discourse to begin. A brief beat, and a raised hand.

“Jacob?” He called, nodding towards the junior, who fiddled with the string on his sweatshirt as he spoke. 

“Well, it must be inherently Jewish to dissent, mustn’t it?” And Crowley smiled as he raised an eyebrow. Everyone in the class knew what the eyebrow raise meant, if you were to make a claim, you ought to have a reason. “Well, it’s just, we’re a fundamentally persecuted people, it would be wrong for us to sit idle while others are being persecuted.” Crowley opened his mouth to respond, but there was already another hand in the air. He smiled.

“Sam, a response?” Sam nodded, tucking a loose strand of hair that had fallen out of her bun back behind her ear.

“I think people of all religions and ethnic backgrounds have an obligation to push back against persecution, it’s not inherent in any religion to be a force of dissent.” She argued, but there were more hands in the air now. 

“Jesse?” He said, gesturing for him to take the floor.

“Well, I see your point but, historically people of other religious backgrounds don’t actually show up in force on the reg.” He said, eyes flitting to Crowley, he held his hand flat, signalling that he should feel free to continue. “It’s about the emphasis on study and education in Judaism that leads us to be more inclined to push back.” More hands, Crowley grinned, positively giddy. He let the discussion spiral on, stepping in here and there to lend a fact, a perspective, a source, or just to facilitate, but mostly he let them continue. Eventually, however, he had to hold up a hand. 

“Alright, alright, alright.” He said, and a whispered Matthew McConaughey impression from the back corner of the room sent him chuckling. “That’s quite enough for now. We’ve got ten minutes left. Shall we do Joys and Oys or are you all finished?” There was a murmur of agreement around the room, so Crowley nodded, hopping up to sit criss-cross applesauce on his desk. “Very well, who’ll start?” Some hands, he chose a student at random.

“Okay so my oy for the week is that my roommate absolutely will not stop shedding in the bathroom.” Lila complained. “I’m not sure where on earth she gets so much hair from because she still has plenty on her head. If I have to unclog the drain again I will positively scream.” Crowley nodded sympathetically. 

“I’d be collecting the hair for a nasty surprise come April Fools Day, if I were you.” He suggested, and Lila’s eyes lit up. “Your joy?”

“Right, well, the waffle truck parked right outside my house this morning, and I got the most amazing funfetti waffle.” Some appreciative noises and snaps throughout the room.  
“I’m jealous.” He admitted, though if he was being honest, Aziraphale would probably prefer the waffle, but he’d like to watch him enjoy one. “Who’s next?” They made their way around the room, each of his students offering up a joy and an oy. It was a tradition he began when he’d first started teaching this class. On Tuesdays during the last ten or fifteen minutes they’d do an Ask The Jewish Historian, where the students had a chance to ask any burning questions they had about Judaism, with the caveat that any questions Crowley couldn’t answer he would take to his rabbi, and on Thursdays they did Joys and Oys. It was a good way to let off a little steam, especially when the conversations in his class often turned to debates, which, to be entirely fair, could sometimes verge more towards arguments. Crowley gave advice, upon occasion, which was often more chaotic than strictly necessary, but he got results. When the last student had concluded, he tried to wave them out the door, but Sam’s hand was up again. He nodded towards her.

“Don’t you have a joy and an oy, Dr. Crowley?” She asked, grinning at him. She had a gap in her front teeth, and she’d shared with the class one day that she used to be awfully insecure about it, but now she liked it. Crowley thought it looked awesome. He grinned back at her. 

“Well I suppose I do. If you’d like to hear it.” He allowed, some nods throughout the classroom. “I suppose my oy would have to be that the shop was out of my favorite coffee, and unfortunately the only other option was a pumpkin blend.” He made a face, but it was mostly for show. He didn’t actually hate it, if he was being totally honest. “And my joy?” He thought for a minute. His mind was chorusing AziraphaleAziraphaleAziraphaleAziraphale. “Well, I’ll have you know that it’s Shabbat tomorrow, and that’s enough of a joy, especially when you consider that now we all know where to get a funfetti waffle.” Some laughter, he chuckled. “Now get out of here, all of you, go have fun.” They shuffled out of the classroom, and Crowley shouldered his bag and followed them out. He ended up, as he usually did, walking down the stairs with a group of them. He let them pester him with questions until he reached his office building. 

“Right, get a life, you lot.” He said, smiling as he shooed them away. 

“See you Tuesday, Dr. Crowley.” Jacob said over his shoulder, and Crowley waved. 

Right. Now to put his Plan into action. He took the stairs up to his hall two at a time, his long legs letting him vault up them with ease. When he was stood outside of Aziraphale’s door he paused. He jumped up and down a few times, waving his long arms, trying to get hyped up. He blew his breath out so his lips flapped, cricked his neck to the left and to the right. He could do this. He was still jumping, arms wiggling madly, when Aziraphale’s office door opened. Azirphale appraised him as he landed. He was smiling wryly.

“Yes, I thought I heard someone jumping around out here.” He said, reaching up to tug on Crowley’s collar. Crowley obliged him, bending a bit, and Aziraphale kissed him smugly. 

“Really, Aziraphale? On the threshold? What will people think of me?” He sassed. Aziraphale swatted him on the arm with his newspaper.

“Perhaps you’d better come inside quickly then.” He said, and Crowley made a bit of a show of sauntering into Aziraphale’s office, hips swinging from side to side. “You flirt.” Aziraphale accused, and Crowley gave him a little salute. He leaned against the desk, in a pose that he hoped was suitably tantalizing. Sure, he hadn’t necessarily meant for Aziraphale to catch him while he was hyping himself up, but he could salvage this. Aziraphale seemed to be fairly taken with it, he closed the door with a sharp click, and was across his office in no time, kissing Crowley hungrily. Crowley grinned, hopping up onto Aziraphale’s desk, his legs opening. Aziraphale fit snugly between them. They broke apart, but Crowley clenched his thighs around Aziraphale, trapping him. Aziraphale smiled fondly at him. 

“Really, dear boy, I can’t stay here all afternoon.” 

“I disagree, but that’s neither here nor there.” Aziraphale kissed him quickly on the nose. Crowley’s tan had faded, but his freckles remained. They dusted across the bridge of his nose, and, Aziraphale now knew, were speckled over his shoulders as well. Aziraphale could have written an epic about them.

“Was there something that you wanted, Anthony?” Aziraphale asked, reaching up to run a hand through his hair. Crowley blushed. 

“Well, not wanted, exactly. I just had a thought, a passing thought, not really important in the slightest.” He rambled, fiddling with the lapels on Aziraphale’s coat, his legs still bracketing him, but they’d slackened a bit. Aziraphale tutted. 

“Ask me for what you want, Anthony.” Aziraphale instructed, and Crowley very nearly blacked out. Aziraphale nuzzled into the crook of Crowley’s neck, kissing him gently there.  
“I, well, it’s just.” Crowley couldn’t focus, and he had a Plan, damn it.

“Yes?” Aziraphale prompted, and he could practically feel the smug smile Aziraphale was wearing. 

“I was wondering if you’d like to come back with me to shul tomorrow night.” He said it all in a rush, as though he’d lose his nerve if he didn’t get it out. Aziraphale leaned back, clearly surprised. His eyebrows were raised, and he cocked his head to one side. Crowley’s hands were still gripping his lapels, and he smoothed them out now, worried they might wrinkle. 

“Oh?” Aziraphale asked, and Crowley took it as a good sign that he was grinning. 

“Well, I was just thinking, maybe, if you wanted…” he trailed off, and Aziraphale continued to gaze at him. His patience was admirable as always. “It’s okay if you don’t want-” Aziraphale put his hands on Crowley’s upper thighs. 

“Perhaps you’d better ask me for what you want first.” Aziraphale suggested, gently. Crowley nodded. 

“Right, obviously.” He took a breath. “If you wanted, I might, well, I might introduce you as my...my boyfriend?” He asked, and he felt tremendously idiotic for it. He felt like a teenager, all bumbling and overly formal. Aziraphale, however, grinned so widely he thought his face might split, and let out a small, giddy, giggle. 

“Is that what this is all about?” He asked, through a laugh. “Of course, dear, of course.” He laughed again, and Crowley pouted. 

“There’s no need to be so smug about it.” He insisted. 

“Of course there is, sweet.” He kissed Crowley, with an exaggerated smack. Crowley rolled his eyes, immediately releasing his legs. “I’d be honored, dear boy. Is that why you were doing jumping jacks outside of my office?”

“Really, Aziraphale, have you ever seen anyone do a jumping jack? Those clearly were not jumping jacks.” he huffed. “At best it was an interpretive dance of some sort.” Aziraphale laughed, and walked around to his chair. Crowley hopped off his desk, taking care to right one of the papers he’d knocked askew. 

“It’s meant to be a lovely night, perhaps we could walk there tomorrow evening?” Aziraphale suggested. Crowley nodded eagerly. “Lovely. Thank you for asking me, dearest.” Crowley grunted, determined to regain his dignity. After all, part one of his Plan had been accomplished. He pattered his feet on the ground. Well, Aziraphale was his boyfriend. It was nearly enough to make his brain short circuit. Now, on to part two.


	20. Have You Heard?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley is absolutely ridiculous and I for one am delighted

Aziraphale straightened his bow tie as he stood on the stoop of Crowley’s apartment. He grinned as he checked his watch, he still had another three or four minutes, but he was happy to wait out here. He figured Crowley would appreciate the courtesy of ringing the bell on time, rather than come in early as he had attempted on their previous date. Was this a date? Aziraphale supposed it was, and smiled fondly to himself as he leaned against the railing of the stoop. Of course Crowley would consider him coming along to shul on Friday night a date, that was what had started this all in the first place. Crowley at shul, Aziraphale closed his eyes in bliss, he had been so enraptured, so taken with Crowley, so fully comfortable and at home in that space, so happy to be there and to speak with everyone. Crowley gave so much of himself to his students, to anyone who asked, he often worried whether he wasn’t stretching himself thin, but he recalled all of the times he’d asked for help from Crowley, asked for a favor, and Crowley jumped at the chance. It made Crowley feel valued, but it was how he expressed that he valued others as well. Aziraphale grinned, Crowley was properly perfect.

Inside the flat, Crowley drummed his fingers on the table. He’d picked out an outfit the evening before, once he was sure that Aziraphale would be joining him. He’d left his hair, only going through the usual ablutions he’d attend to on any other Friday evening. He’d prepped everything for dinner that evening, everything was set to a simmer. He’d made Aziraphale’s favorite challah, the one with the rosewater, and he’d set the oven to cook the salmon, wrapped neatly in filo pastry with a beautiful feta and basil puree, while they’d be gone. He’d even made chocolate babkah. Everything was accounted for, except Aziraphale. His knee bobbed up and down as he continued to drum his fingers on his kitchen table. Finally, at 6:01 on the dot, there was a knock at Crowley’s front door. He tried to get up casually, but ended up sprinting to the door regardless. Aziraphale stood smugly on his front porch.

“Very amusing.” Crowley said, quirking a brow. “Were you waiting out here long?” Aziraphale chuckled.

“Shabbat shalom to you too, dear.” He stepped up onto Crowley’s threshold, kissing him enthusiastically. Crowley, all wry wit forgotten, smiled dizzily down at Aziraphale as they broke apart. The sun was setting, and the warm light was cast beautifully across his face and hair, Aziraphale looked beautiful, and Crowley was in disbelief. “Shall we?” Aziraphale asked, holding out his arm. 

“Just a moment.” Crowley said, holding up a finger. He took a few steps inside, grabbing the pair of kippot he’d pulled out off of the kitchen counter. He stuck the black one on his own head, securing it with a bobby pin. He returned to the threshold and held the other up for Aziraphale to inspect. The kippah was crocheted, a tan color with a gold accent on the edge. He’d received it as a gift for his bar mitzvah, many many years ago, and thought it was gorgeous, but it didn’t quite fit his aesthetic. He’d remembered it the week before, and had dug around in his judaica box for it, thrilled to find it still intact. “Thought this one might suit you better than that silly blue one from the other week.” Aziraphale beamed at him. He took the kippah carefully, admiring it before looking back at Crowley.

“It’s beautiful.” He breathed, smiling. 

“It’s vintage, well, as vintage as I am, I guess. Thought you’d like it.” Crowley shrugged one shoulder. “Here, I’ll help you with it.” He took the kippah back, reaching over Aziraphale’s head to set it lightly on his curls. It was perfect, but Crowley has suspected it would be. He took the opportunity once the kippah was in place to run his fingers through the slightly unruly curls on the top of Aziraphale’s head. His eyes fluttered shut, and Crowley grinned, leaning in and kissing him squarely on the mouth. Aziraphale’s eyes shot open, and Crowley smiled into the kiss, letting it continue until it was just on the line of filthy before they broke apart. Aziraphale let out a small breath, and leaned up on his tip toes to kiss him chastely once more. 

“I think we ought to get going, because if we continue on like this we certainly won’t get to shul.” Crowley nodded, winking at Aziraphale as he took his offered arm, and they strolled together down the street. 

It wasn’t a far walk, only about ten minutes, and they fell into a comfortable silence as they mozied along. Aziraphale hummed a little tune, and Crowley drummed his fingers in the crook of Aziraphale’s elbow. They stepped in sync nearly the whole way. 

William, of course, was waiting outside of the shul. His face split into a manic grin when he caught sight of the pair of them, and Crowley rushed forward, leaving Aziraphale to hurry after him. 

“William!” He called, and he reached out a hand. William shook it firmly, still grinning like a madman. 

“What’s up, man?” William said, eyebrows raised.

“Oh you know, same tiny office, same ridiculous students…” He trailed off as Aziraphale caught up with him. “Oh, by the way, have you met my boyfriend, Aziraphale Will?” He grinned back at William, gesturing at Aziraphale. Aziraphale chickled at him, holding out his hand to William.

“It’s good to see you again.” He said, cordially. William, however, seemed not to be one for formality.

“It’s about damn time, man!” He said fist pumping with the hand that was not currently shaking Aziraphale’s. Aziraphale smiled, unable to stop himself. He allowed himself a moment of absolute frivolity and fist pumped twice. Crowley turned to him looking utterly incredulous. He caught his eye and shrugged primly. William wolf whistled as they went inside together, and Crowley was blushing when they reached the lobby. 

“Anthony!” Someone called from across the lobby. It was a very wobbly old man, peering up at the pair of them from behind a pair of glasses that looked utterly ancient. 

“Shabbat Shalom, Mr. Goldberg. This is my boyfriend Aziraphale!” Crowley gestured, inclining his head slightly toward the old man. He chuckled as he continued to wobble towards the sanctuary. 

“So nice to meet you, Ezra.” He waved a hand as he went, and Crowley giggled. 

“I think you were just awarded a Hebrew name, mazel tov, Ezra.: He congratulated Azriaphale, turning to look at him. Aziraphale was smiling at him with so much gentleness and fondness that it nearly broke Crowley’s heart. “What is it?” He smirked.

“You’re just very remarkable, is all.” He replied, kissing Crowley’s knuckles. Crowley blushed still more.

“Shall we, angel?” He gestured towards the open doors of the sanctuary.

“After you, dearest.” Crowley took his hand and led him in. They headed straight to Crowley’s usual seat. Mrs. Snyder turned around, as if she had been waiting for her cue.

“Anthony.” She said, and Crowley took her hands, just as he had all those weeks ago, kissing them. 

“Shabbat Shalom, Mrs. Snyder.” She nodded sagely at him before turning to Aziraphale. 

“You’ve returned, I’m pleased to see you.” She said, reaching to pat Aziraphale on the cheek. He nodded."

“Ah yes, Mrs. Snyder, I believe you’ve bet my boyfriend, Aziraphale?” He asked, and Mrs. Snyder’s gaze snapped back to Crowley in an instant. She smiled deviously at him, clearly thrilled. 

“Not such an idiot after all, are you, Anthony?” She asked.

“Jury’s still out on that one, I’m afraid.” He replied, able to throw a little bit of snark her way. Mr. Cohen peered around Crowley from down the row. 

“What did you say, Anthony?” He asked, fiddling with his kippah as he spoke. 

“Shabbat shalom, Mr. Cohen, I was just mentioning to Mrs. Snyder about my boyfriend, Aziraphale.” He said, leaning back so that Mr. Cohen could get a good look. He nodded appraising Aziraphale.

“A goy?” He asked, raising a bushy eyebrow.

“Ah, yes, but a doctor.” Crowley said wisely, and Mr. Cohen and Mrs. Snyder gasped in unison, nodding as if that made all the sense in the world. They turned back around to face the rabbi and the cantor as they welcomed everyone to Shabbat services. Aziraphale leaned in towards Crowley.

“They surely know I don’t practice medicine.” He admonished Crowley lightly.

“That hardly matters, Dr. Will.” Crowley said, and winked. 

The service progressed, and Aziraphale found himself watching Crowley with reckless abandon. The way his face looked when he was reciting the prayers in Hebrew, it was almost like he was meditating. The way his voice murmured the sounds, foreign to Aziraphale’s ears but so comforting coming from Crowley, it was mesmerizing, he found himself unable to look away. He listened closely as the cantor introduced a prayer called Shalom Rav, Crowley had smiled when he’d announced the page number. He sang low, but the notes were so perfect it felt like they were rattling around in Aziraphale’s ribcage. Crowley’s voice curled up like a cat, resting as a heat low in his stomach.   
Upon the conclusion of the service, Crowley stood, his joints creaking a bit, and leaned down to kiss Aziraphale on the crown of his head.  
“Shabbat Shalom.” He said, grasping his hand again. Mrs. Snyder turned to them once more. 

“Come along now, really, you-” she jabbed a finger at Aziraphale, who looked taken aback. “Make sure he eats. The pair of you are far far too thin.” Aziraphale smiled helplessly. “Let’s go, it’s my one chance to get some meat on your bones during the week. Come on now.” Crowley took her arm and allowed them to be marched into the oneg room once again. 

Mrs. Snyder loaded up a plate and pushed it into Azirphale’s hands, before beginning on another, which she forced onto Crowley. 

“Really, Mrs. Snyder, we could have shared-”

“Nonsense.” She insisted, pulling apart a piece of challah. “Anthony, just remember, it’s always important to fulfill mitzvot.” She looked at him pointedly, and when Aziraphale glanced up, he was surprised to find Crowley beet red.

“Shalom Aleinu, Mrs. Snyder.” He said, shaking his head. She had, unwittingly, guessed at Part Two of his plan, but to hear it from a bubby was something truly absurd to behold.  
“I was young once!” She insisted, quirking an eyebrow. 

“I’m not young now!” Crowley pointed out. And Aziraphale tutted at him.

“Of course you are, dear boy.” He said, soothingly.

“Oh, I like him.” Mrs. Snyder remarked, already turning away from him. Of course, directly behind her was Rabbi Dov, looking thoroughly thrilled to see them. Crowley shook his hand, as did Aziraphale.

“Did I hear that your boyfriend Aziraphale is here, Anthony? It’s all anyone can talk about, that Dr. Anthony Crowley is here with his doctor boyfriend. Tell me, is it true?” The rabbi teased good naturedly, pantomiming looking high and low. 

“See now you’ve taken away all my fun!” Crowley insisted, but he was laughing. 

“Thrilled to hear it, Anthony, just thrilled.” He smiled at Aziraphale. “Welcome back, I’m very glad to see you.” He patted Aziraphale on the shoulder, before looking over to the corner of the room.

“I see Mrs. Snyder’s on her way to the cantor, if you beat her you’ll be able to spread the news yourself.” Crowley whipped around and shot off in the direction the rabbi indicated.

“Hey, Cantor! Did you hear-” Aziraphale chuckled. The rabbi smiled at him.

“Shabbat shalom, Aziraphale. You’re welcome whenever you’d like.” 

“Thank you, Shabbat shalom.” Aziraphale waited for Crowley to return, smiling fondly as he did. 

“You’re quite exuberant this evening, dearest.” He observed, Crowley’s glasses were askew from his rush back over, and he reached up to put them right. 

“Well, can you blame me?” Aziraphale shook his head.

“No, I certainly can’t.”


	21. Mitzvah Goreret Mitzvah

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm SO sorry for the delay I meant to write this last shabbat but I've been Going Through It but here you go have a midweek mitzvah. LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK y'all know I'm terrible with this stuff. Yell at me over at isoundmybarbaricyawp on tumblr.

The walk back to Crowley’s flat was filled with yet more questions from Aziraphale, this time, more personal, less about the ins and outs of the service. They held hands, swinging them slightly as they walked.

“How long have you been going there?” Aziraphale asked, looking at Crowley through his eyelashes. 

“Since I moved to town, I was surprised, lots of little towns don’t have a Jewish community as close as this one.” He remarked, grinning a bit. “Took a while for me to really integrate. I was nervous, maybe, I was at a city shul before this, people were plenty accepting and flexible.”

“And here?” Aziraphale prompted, puzzled.

“Well, they’re accepting too, I was just skittish, maybe. I started just going to Friday night services, and every week Rabbi Dov would mention Torah Study, and every week I’d think about going, but ultimately wouldn’t. One week I marched right in and asked Rabbi what the dress code was. Wouldn’t want to be underdressed, you see.” Aziraphale nodded, understanding completely, though he was rarely underdressed. “And that was it. Mrs. Snyder invited me round for a Shabbat dinner one week, Rabbi Dov the next, and I fell into the groove.” Aziraphale had this peaceful smile plastered to his face, like he was so utterly relaxed he might melt into a puddle right next to Crowley as he was talking. They turned onto Crowley’s street, and he sped up just a bit to get to his door. He held it open for Azirphale, and followed him inside.

“What shall I pour for us, dearest?” Aziraphale asked, wandering around the kitchen.

“White, I think would suit well.” Crowley said. “I’ve got a Chardonnay that will be nice.” Aziraphale nodded, opening the refrigerator and pulling out the bottle Crowley mentioned. They moved around each other in the kitchen, and Aziraphale couldn’t help but grin at how well they navigated each other’s space, like they were doing an utterly domestic dance. Crowley was checking something in the oven as Aziraphale reached over him to reach the wine glasses. Their hands brushed as they reached into the same drawer, Aziraphale for the wine key Crowley stashed in there, Crowley for his matches. Finally, the wine was poured, and the oven, thanks to Aziraphale, was off. 

“It smells amazing, Anthony.” Aziraphale complimented, and Crowley’s cheeks burned. He grinned, rather than try to articulate anything.

Crowley struck a match and lit the candles, bringing the light toward him three times before saying the blessing. When he was finished, he uncovered his eyes and turned toward the table. He was loathe to bless over white wine, there was something about white wine that was wholly unholy, as far as he was concerned, so he took the little bottle of Manischewitz he kept for occasions such as this and poured a little into two glasses. He held his up, and Azirphale followed suit as he said the blessing. Aziraphale always liked this one, Crowley said it almost lazily, like it was always waiting to be said, right on the tip of his tongue as he went throughout the day, just waiting for Friday night. All the same, he still grimaced at the much too sweet wine. Crowley chuckled, and took his offending glass from him, placing them both in the sink, where he ran water over his hands before returning for HaMotzi.

When the blessing was finished and Crowley had uncovered the challah, with a hint of a flourish, if he wasn’t mistaken, Aziraphale nearly gasped. They were beautiful, dusted with ground pistachios and roses, and they smelled like heaven. He grinned, thrilled at Crowley, who offered him first dibs. 

“I’d ask you to guess, but I’m fairly sure you already know.” He said, grinning through a mouthful of challah.

“Oh, they’re beautiful. They’re divine, Anthony.” Aziraphale made a noise that really was not appropriate for the dinner table as he ate. Crowley’s knee bounced under the kitchen table. 

“Thought you’d like it.” He said, and Aziraphale looked at him so fondly that Crowley nearly lost the will to continue, because honestly how could anything be better in life than Aziraphale looking at him so fondly, so gently, with challah in hand? But he had still more in his arsenal to impress his angel with, so he soldiered on bravely. He took two plates down from the cupboard, and served the beautiful filo wrapped filets of salmon, along with the green beans and potatoes. He placed Aziraphale’s down in front of him and Aziraphale looked about ready to applaud.

They dug in, and the conversation was punctuated with Aziraphale celebrating Crowley’s cooking prowess. Crowley started to relax, bit by bit, letting Aziraphale’s warmth and comfort seep into him. 

“I hope you don’t think I was overzealous at shul this evening.” Crowley mentioned, pouring them both more wine.

“Nonsense.” Aziraphale countered, catching Crowley’s free hand. He kissed his palm before letting him go again. “You’re perfect.” Crowley’s brain short circuited as he put the wine back. 

“Hardly, but that’s neither here nor there.” He aimed for off-handed, for casual, apparently he missed. 

“Oh no, dear boy.” Aziraphale replied, looking at Crowley as he sat down. His gaze made Crowley feel much too visible, but he was desperate for Aziraphale to keep looking, to keep seeing. “You’re better than perfect.” Crowley tried to look away, but found for once he couldn’t. Aziraphale stood, advancing on him. “So handsome, so bright, so vocal.” He was really quite close now, and he ran a hand through Crowley’s hair, still looking at him. “So good, so good for me.” Crowley whined, and Aziraphale grinned. “Isn’t that right?”

“I-We, I mean-” He stuttered.

“Oh dear I’d love for you to get a sentence out. You are perfect, and you are so utterly good, good for me, tell me that’s right.” Crowley was certain he was going to catch fire. He reached up, intending to show rather than tell, intending to haul Aziraphale down to his level by his lapels and kiss him so hard he’d be thinking about it for weeks. Aziraphale, however, had other intentions, he caught his wrists as his hands flew up, holding them firmly. “Won’t you tell me?” Crowley’s felt heat pooling in his stomach, that radiated from where Aziraphale held him by this wrists. How did breathing work again? 

Aziraphale smirked, Crowley looked wrecked already and Aziraphale was thrilled. He could see him working through a response, working through what to do next. He’d love to get Crowley’s brain to turn off, even just for a few minutes, to get him to stop over thinking around him. He could be quite determined when he put his mind to it. Finally, Crowley opened his mouth.

“It’s right.” He said, and if Aziraphale was a kinder man, he might have let that go, but instead he kissed Crowley, hard and fast, and Crowley relaxed for a fraction of a second before Aziraphale leaned back again.

“What’s right?” He asked, and Crowley gulped. Aziraphale watched his neck work, and he longed to be closer, but he wanted this victory first. Crowley, for all he might want to seem put out, was betraying himself. Panting, and rapidly hardening at the kitchen table. Aziraphale grinned. “What’s right, dear boy?” 

“I’m…” Crowley shuddered when Aziraphale stroked his cheek. “I’m good. Good for you.” Aziraphale was upon him in seconds, seizing him by the shoulders, hauling him to his feet, and kissing him so fiercely that Crowley was momentarily worried his lips might absolutely fall off. He groaned, loudly, into Aziraphale’s mouth. However, after a moment, he remembered himself, and leaned back. 

“I made babka.” He informed Aziraphale, gesturing to the counter. Aziraphale, the smarmy bastard, responded by beginning to suck on Crowley’s neck. Crowley mewled, the hot breath so close to his ear made him shiver. 

“After.” Aziraphale breathed. And Crowley, who recognized that this was very much going According To Plan and fulfilling Part Two, if not According To Order, nodded. 

He led Aziraphale to his bedroom, and proceeded to immediately divest Aziraphale of his jacket and absurd bow tie. Aziraphale obliged him, going loose as he moved to his shirt, pulling down Aziraphale’s suspenders and starting on the buttons. Aziraphale mirrored him, and soon they stood before each other, quite bare indeed. Aziraphale daintily rolled his socks, which Crowley found so positively endearing he could just die right there. Crowley kept his socks on. 

The kissing, hot and desperate, led to fondling, Aziraphale was distracted by the marks that showed so readily on Crowley’s skin, as if he had just been waiting for Aziraphale to leave them there. Crowley’s hands moved desperately, from Aziraphale’s hair, to his waist, to his shoulders, his hips. Trailing whispers of devotion where they lighted.   
Aziraphale let his hand wander downwards, and he kneeled before Crowley’s open legs, a question in his eyes. 

“Love,” he began, and Crowley’s eyes, which had fluttered shut under Aziraphale’s ministrations, shot open at the pet name. “How far, how do you…?” He trailed off, and Crowley scooted upwards on his pillow, leaning over and reaching into his bedside table. He tossed the bottle he found there at Aziraphale, hoping that would serve as an answer. 

“Ahh.” Aziraphale breathed. And he reached down yet further, Crowley shuddered as his finger fluttered over his rim, teasingly. Aziraphale was surprised. “Someone’s prepared.” He remarked, and he travelled back up to kiss Crowley again. “You’ve always been industrious, darling.” He breathed against his lips. “Were you thinking of me earlier?”

“Wanted to-hoped we could-” Crowley began several sentences, seemingly unable to finish any of them. Aziraphale reached over to where he’d discarded his pants, pulling a condom from the pocket and rolling it on deftly, winking at Crowley. 

“I rather think we were on the same page, but I’d so like to hear what you hoped we could do.” Aziraphale hinted, slicking himself and rubbing his head, ever so gently, along Crowley. Crowley whined, screwing his eyes shut in frustration. Aziraphale pinched his inner thigh, and his eyes shot open again. “Consent is important dearest, and I’d like to hear you tell me exactly what you’d like me to do.”

“Consent given, for heaven’s sake Aziraphale!” Crowley insisted, his hands coming up to Aziraphale’s shoulders. Aziraphale pinned them back to the bed, still teasing, rolling his hips and sliding in and out between Crowley’s cheeks. 

“Ah, but what for?” He asked, and Crowley felt sure he was going to explode. 

“Just fuck me, Aziraphale, please please.” Aziraphale grinned, lining up and slowly, ever so slowly, fucking into Crowley. Crowley sobbed, his hands twitching at his sides. Aziraphale stayed stock still, watching Crowley’s face. Aziraphale reached down, brushing Crowley’s brow. “Move, Aziraphale, good lord.” He requested. Aziraphale pretended to consider, let the moment hang between them before Crowley cried out a desperate “please!” 

Aziraphale obliged him, murmuring words of praise in his ear as he did. He kept up a stream of it, delighted to see how it made Crowley’s cock leak between them. How he shuddered when Aziraphale’s cock brushed against his prostate. How he moaned when Aziraphale’s hands roamed across his body, just touching and touching and touching.

“You’re so responsive, have you always been so responsive?” He asked, growling into Crowley’s ear, and Crowley shook his head.

“Just you.” He insisted, and Aziraphale grinned. 

“You’re just perfect. So good, so beautiful like this.” He detailed, thrusting becoming steadily more erratic, less purposeful. “I’m awfully close, lovely, are you close?” Crowley nodded, desperately. “Tell me.”

“I’m close, god you’re fucking fantastic.” Aziraphale kissed him. 

“Filthy mouth on you.” 

“On ME?” Aziraphale ignored him.

“You feel so good, like you can’t get enough. Can you come like this? Is it enough?” Crowley moaned, panted, nodded.

“I’d like you to, come for me, won’t you? Come for me now.” And Crowley, taking it upon himself, reached around, clutching at Aziraphale ass, pulling him deeper, closer to him, and crested, losing himself completely as he came completely untouched, crying out “Angel!” His head buried in the crook of Aziraphale’s neck. He clenched around Aziraphale, and he was done for as well.

“Oh Anthony, oh, my love.” He breathed as he came. 

They stayed there for a moment, breathing each other in, before Aziraphale pulled out, gingerly and gently, taking care to kiss Crowley deeply. Crowley’s hair was in every different direction, his chest splotched with red, hickeys littering his neck, chest, hips. Aziraphale wished he was a painter, wished he could immortalize this moment. “Oh you’re beautiful.” He breathed. Crowley propped himself up on one elbow as Aziraphale rolled over. Crowley grinned. “How do you feel?” 

“How do I feel?” Crowley repeated, incredulously. “Like I’ve died and gone to heaven, Aziraphale, fucking hell.” Aziraphale brushed his hair out of his face, smiling at him. “Who the hell knew you were so-” He waved his hand in the air in front of him. “Expressive.” He broke into a few hysterical giggles. He took a deep breath. “How do you feel?” He asked, grinning at him. Aziraphale looked fond.

“Peckish.” He admitted. And Crowley, taking that as his cue, rocketed out of bed, sliding on his socks back to the kitchen. He was back within moments, and Aziraphale took in the sight of Crowley, buck naked but for his socks, standing before him with two plates of babka. Crowley grinned, looking rather mad, and Aziraphale felt himself falling yet deeper. He smiled back.

They ate, sitting up, careful not to let any crumbs fall onto Crowley’s sheets. Aziraphale hummed around a mouthful.

“Anthony there’s something besides chocolate in here I’d bet my life on it.” His eyes sparkled. 

“Hmmm.” He replied, tempting Aziraphale to guess. Aziraphale sniffed at the filling, eyebrows shooting up.

“Lavender!” He insisted, looking over to Crowley, who was already grinning.

“Can’t fool you, angel.” He replied, and Aziraphale looked thrilled. 

“Dearest I was wondering.” He began, and Crowley looked at him out of the corner of his eye. Aziraphale pushed on. “You seem...well... very prepared for this evening.” Crowley looked at Aziraphale, lounging in his bed, looking so thoroughly comfortable. 

“Well, I was.” He allowed. Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. “I wanted this, with you, so badly.” He blushed, looking at his plate. “And, well…” He trailed off.

“Go on.” Aziraphale encouraged.

“Well, it’s a mitzvah to...be...intimate...on Shabbat.” He admitted, and it looked as though even the delicate freckles on his shoulders were blushing. Aziraphale’s mouth fell open. “A double mitzvah, even!” He added. “And I just thought, well, I thought I’d...seduce you.” Azriaphale laughed, delighted and enthused. Crowley looked up again, and grinned hesitantly. 

“You certainly did a fantastic job, your seductive wiles were gorgeous dear.” He paused, remembering, and chuckled. “Mrs. Snyder knows her mitzvahs.” He said, still laughing. Crowley shook his head.

“Mitzvot.” He corrected automatically. “And I’d never been so mortified in my life.” He laughed a bit, ears pink and hot. 

“Do you know something, Anthony?” Crowley looked at him as Aziraphale licked a crumb from his forefinger. Crowley shook his head.

“What is it, angel?”

“I think I ought to come with you to shul again next week.”


	22. Two True Minds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a short one for today! This is so soft and sweet I'm pretty sure I'm just a puddle now.

There are certain things that Crowley struggled to say out loud. He had difficulty complimenting himself. He was making an attempt, but it wasn’t easy. He found himself fundamentally flawed, as it turned out, and it wasn’t easy for him to contradict that belief. He struggled to ask for things, to ask for what he wanted. Though, with Aziraphale, he certainly found himself gaining quite a bit of practice with that. Silly things, too. He could never say the word “photography” right on the first go, and took several tried to say “Deuteronomy” before eventually giving up and just calling it “Dvarim” instead. Aziraphale also prided himself that he was fairly able to make Crowley forget any words besides “Please” and “Aziraphale” and “Fuck.” But, Aziraphale found himself musing that for all the things Crowley struggled to say out loud, “I love you” was not one of them.

Crowley said it easily, and he said it often. The first time was a bit of a surprise. Aziraphale and Crowley had been in Crowley’s office, Crowley had been tacking up a poster that had fallen down the previous day, and found himself a pin short. 

“Angel, would you go into my desk and grab a push pin, will you?” Aziraphale obliged, moving around the desk and opening one of Crowley’s desk drawers. Crowley, intent on keeping the poster level, didn’t notice Aziraphale reaching right past his box of push pins, his hand finding the cardboard coffin box in the back of the drawer. He looked over when the silence extended a bit too long, and saw Aziraphale holding the box. He promptly dropped the poster, letting it hang askew on its three pins. 

“Zira-” He began, but Aziraphale was smiling.

“Are these?” He held one up, the one asking Crowley to go to Device. Crowley nodded desperately.

“They’re yours.”

“You’ve kept quite a collection.” Aziraphale remarked, and he looked so fond that Crowley just shrugged.

“Well, sure, I love you.” He said it like it was the answer to any question Aziraphale could possibly have on the matter. Aziraphale nearly dropped the box, but Crowley was already returning to his poster. “A push pin, please, Zira?” He brought him one, pausing near Crowley long enough to catch his breath.

“I’ll have to leave some more for your archives, then.” Crowley grinned, and kissed Aziraphale on the temple before going to sit back down.

And it didn’t seem to stop. Crowley said it so often, and it made Aziraphale’s heart jolt every single time. One Monday morning, when Crowley had still been asleep in Aziraphale’s bed, Aziraphale had gone down to make his morning tea, and took a moment to brew Crowley some coffee while he was at it. When he’d brought Crowley his coffee in bed, Crowley had nearly gasped in joy. 

“Oh angel, I love you.” He’d said, cupping his mug in his hands and curling his body around it. Aziraphale had spilt a little tea on his night shirt in response. And after that, every time Aziraphale delivered a cup of coffee to Crowley, Crowley responded with an easy “I love you.” 

Whenever they parted, a quick kiss and an “I love you, see you later.” On Shabbat, where Aziraphale was now a regular feature, when the service concluded, a kiss and “Shabbat shalom, I love you.” Laughing at Aziraphale making faces while he brushed his teeth, and chuckle and an “I love you, you absurd madman.” It didn’t stop, it just flowed from Crowley like there was nothing to it.

Aziraphale felt it. He knew he did, he’d known it since the day Crowley had taken him to shul with him, had taken Mrs. Snyder’s hand. He knew it. But saying it felt insurmountable, somehow, to him. Like if he said it, something in the earth would shift and crack. But he’d kept Crowley waiting for so long, and he felt it, with all his heart. He wanted to say it. 

So he left notes. One with the entirety of Sonnet 116 scrawled on it, left on Crowley’s coffee mug. Some with Keats quotes, on Crowley’s closed office door. Some with compliments, about Crowley’s humor, his writing, his devastating good looks. But nothing that came right out and said it. 

He liked to plan. He liked a clear plan of direction. And he was an English literature professor, so of course he had a certain flair for the dramatic. So he planned it all out. He’d take Crowley to dinner, perhaps to the new restaurant in town. He’d take a walk with him, Crowley was so partial to that gazebo in the middle of campus, it was surrounded by gorgeous trees, and stood right next to the river that bordered town. The leaves would still be on the trees, full of wonderful colors, Crowley always reminded him of Autumn. And he’d play music, they could dance, perhaps, and Aziraphale would tell him. Would tell him that he loved him most ardently. That he was the only one he thought of. That he had been bewitched, body and soul. That he was his love, his life, his one and only thought. That he had been asleep until he fell in love. That every atom of Crowley’s flesh was as near to him as his own. He would pull from every book he’d read, every poem, ever line in every script, to let Crowley know so thoroughly how much he loved him.

Of course, that wasn’t how things happened. No, he couldn’t have planned how it actually happened.

One morning, Crowley sauntered through his office door, waving a paper around in the air. Aziraphale grinned as Crowley landed in his favored chair, leg over one of the arm rests, a smile already on his face, dancing around the corners of his eyes. He shook the paper dramatically, not even pausing for a “good morning” and began to read. 

“One star. IF I COULD GIVE DR. WILL NO STARS I WOULD.” He began, peering over the top of the paper to gauge Aziraphale’s reaction. Aziraphale was already grinning. “This man delights in making his students mizerable.” He took care to read the misspelling carefully, and Aziraphale laughed. “He made me read my sonnet 3 times bcuz he said it wasnt convincing! Not my fault Shakespeare cant write!” Aziraphale burst into laughter. 

“Did you print that out?!” He demanded, taking a deep breath. Crowley waved off the question, continuing.

“One star. WHERE IS HIS OFFICE?!” Crowley had shouted it, gesturing around the room as if looking for something. Aziraphale was in hysterics. 

“Stop, stop, my goodness.” He said through his laughter. But Crowley wasn’t finished.

“One star. Total asshole. We had to write a 7 page paper n i don’t think anyone got more than a 75 on it. Who even wears bow ties anyway?” 

“Alright, alright!” Aziraphale said, and Crowley paused. He was laughing, and Aziraphale busied himself with pouring their coffee. “You’re so ridiculous.” He said, absentmindedly shaking out the sugar packets. “I can’t believe you printed those out, I love you, you fool.” It took a moment for him to realize what he’d said, but Crowley was on it immediately.  
“What?!” He demanded, already standing and seizing the sugar packets from Aziraphale’s hand. Aziraphale, realizing, turned toward Crowley, slapping his forehead. 

“Oh no!” He said, and for one terrible moment Crowley looked stricken. “No, no! I had a whole plan! I was going to take you to dinner! I was going to quote Keats! I had a whole speech, Anthony!” Crowley was laughing.

“You what?” He asked, raising his eyebrows.

“I meant to tell you properly, and now I’ve gone and spoiled it! Something else to blame my students for, I suppose. Oh, let me tell you properly! Pretend I didn’t say that!” He insisted, but Crowley grasped his hands.

“Absolutely not.” He said, shaking his head. “That was telling me properly. You can quote Keats any time. I don’t care about proper, just tell me again.” And Aziraphale, so shocked that Crowley was asking for something that he wanted, couldn’t help but oblige him.

“I love you.” He said, wrapping his arms around Crowley’s neck. “I love you.” He stood on tip toe, looking into Crowley’s eyes. “I love you.” He kissed him. “I love you.” Crowley was grinning like an idiot.

“Well, now that’s sorted.”


	23. Head Office

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, okay, 2 more chapters to go for this one, I think. I've been brainstorming new concepts for Crowley and Aziraphale, though, so yknow, there'll be more Jewish Crowley content. BUT YEAH TWO MORE HERE WE GO!!!  
> Also, Zira, this chapter: "To quote Hamlet Act III Scene iii Line 87: 'No.'"

It had been in his Shakespearean Tragedies class that he first considered it. They were discussing Romeo and Juliet, and, well, Aziraphale had always been a bit of a sucker for romantic language and poetry. And Romeo and Juliet, while not actually quite being a love story, did have some of his favorite verses. He didn’t like teaching, but he did like talking about Romeo and Juliet, so he was fairly relaxed in class as they went through the lines, pausing every once in a while to unpack something or other. Eventually, a student raised her hand. He raised his eyebrows.

“Yes?” He asked, shocked by her bravery at interrupting the flow of the lesson.

“Dr. Will, don’t you think any problems Romeo and Juliet might have had could have been solved by just telling an adult about what was going on?” She demanded. He knew her, she’d taken his Intro to Shakespeare class the previous year. He was always impressed by students who took two or more of his classes. He was a difficult professor to like. He considered her question for a moment.

“No.” He replied, and gestured for the student reading for Romeo to continue. He looked between Aziraphale and the student. Her hand was back in the air. 

“Yes?”

“Sorry to interrupt again.” She said, and Aziraphale’s eyebrows creeped still higher into his hair. “But can’t you elaborate on that, sir?” 

“Some people in literature are doomed from the start. This isn’t Midsummer. These people don’t have divine intervention, despite the Friar’s presence. There is no mythos here, only humanity.” He says it seriously, looking right at her. “The beauty of this play would not be beautiful if these characters were able to be rescued.” He lets the silence extend for a few beats. “Does that clarify things for you?” 

“I just think people can be saved a lot of trouble by being upfront.” She said, twiddling her pencil between her thumb and forefinger. He considered her. 

“You might be correct about that. But that is an issue of what we, as people, as real people who live and breathe and exist in the world, are able to learn, to take from the characters that live here in pen and ink.” He tuts. “It’s the same reason why, if three witches appeared to me and told me I’d be the head of the liberal arts department, I’d ignore them. I certainly wouldn’t want Macbeth to ignore his witches, though, else we wouldn’t have his ‘tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow’ speech.” There are some actual real chuckles from his class. He’s shocked. He can’t wait to tell Crowley. “Alright?” She nods, sated, for the time being. He gestures to Romeo, and he continues. 

When the class lets out, he heads right to his office, keeping his head down to avoid students and faculty members alike. He knocks on Crowley’s office door, but he’s not in yet, so he left a note, digging through his desk to find the post its. “AJC-Come next door after office hours? I love you-AZW.” He sticks it on Crowley’s door with a grin, knowing it’ll end up in that ridiculous box of his, and goes to wait in his office. He hears Crowley approach his office, imagines him snatching the post it off the door, imagines him looking at his own office door. He hears students trudging in and out of Crowley’s office. Hears Crowley laugh from behind the wall dividing them. He smiles when he hears it, Crowley thinks his students are absolutely hilarious. Aziraphale didn’t see it, but Crowley’s laugh was so giddy, so excited, it made him smile just to hear it. 

Finally, two hours later, and about half an hour longer than office hours usually ran for Crowley, there’s a knock at his office door. 

“You’re late.” He remarked, in lieu of a greeting. Crowley swaggered in, and Aziraphale can’t even pretend to be cross, not while watching him walk. 

“I’m sorry, angel, but if you think I’m going to miss the chance to have an in depth discussion of whether or not Furbies might be considered kosher you are absolutely wrong.” He leaned down over the desk to kiss Aziraphale, who’s attempted to put on a scowl, but smiled into the kiss nonetheless. 

“I suppose I can’t blame you for that.” Crowley walked around his usual seat, moving around the desk and sitting upon it, facing Aziraphale’s cushioned armchair. 

“You wanted to see me?” He asked, swinging his long legs back and forth. Aziraphale smiled. 

“Dear, I think we ought to tell El about us.” He suggested, and Crowley’s head snapped up. 

“El?” He repeated, eyes wide. 

“Well, yes.” Aziraphale said, leaning forward to put his hands on Crowley’s knees. Crowley was anxious around the head of the department. He was a nonconformist, and the previous department head didn’t like his style. He’d already achieved tenure, of course, but the head had been sure to cut Crowley out of events, research opportunities, anything. Crowley didn’t mind, he preferred teaching. The new head was better, but the experience had left him wary of administration. Aziraphale assumed that was the root of Crowley’s anxiety. 

“Why?” He asked, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. A nervous tic, Aziraphale had noticed. 

“Well, sometimes it’s best to get in front of these things, don’t you know? It’d be better to just have it all out on the table, isn’t it?” Crowley looked troubled. 

“It’s just-if this-if you change your mind, or anything.” Crowley attempted to articulate. “I want to make sure you don’t think we’re going-too fast.” He looked at his hands. Aziraphale was shocked. 

“I’m sorry, you think I don’t want to take this to our boss because...I’m going to change my mind?” Aziraphale needed the clarification, and Crowley nodded. Aziraphale stood, rested both of his hands on Crowley’s shoulders until he finally met his eyes. “I’m all in, Anthony.” Crowley searched Aziraphale’s eyes, looking for uncertainty, looking for any sense of disingenuity, and doubt, there was none, just earnest affection. 

“Well, right then.” Crowley nodded. “Let’s talk to the boss.”

It took a while for Aziraphale to craft the email asking if they could come in and check in with El. Crowley advised him on the wording from his preferred chair. Aziraphale had a tendency to use too many details in his emails, so Crowley helped him streamline. Finally, they sent it, and waited. 

It took even longer to receive a reply. They swapped stories while they waited. Crowley told Aziraphale about the shenanigans he got up to when he was in grade school, describing the great lengths he went to in order to obtain coffee from his teachers when he was in tenth, eleventh and twelfth grade. Aziraphale told him stories about his theater club, how he’d started a trend of crafting paper cranes with curse words folded up inside of them. It went on like this, they’d known each other for years now, but Crowley wished he’d known Aziraphale all his life, so they filled in the blanks with stories.

Finally, finally, the computer pinged. Crowley and Aziraphale crowded around on one side of the desk to read the email.

“Got some time now-El.” Aziraphale read aloud. 

“It took us forever to craft that email and this is the reply.” Crowley added wryly. “How kind.”

“You can’t judge the head of the department, Crowley.” Aziraphale chided him, and Crowley quirked a brow. “She’s…”

“She’s not that busy.” Crowley headed him off. “But very well, angel, let’s go.” He held the door open for him, and they climbed the several flights of stairs to the head’s office together. When they reached her door, Crowley knocked twice. 

“Come in.” El’s voice called. Crowley pushed the door open, and they stepped inside. Crowley hadn’t been here since she’d taken over as head of the department. Her office...well...it rather looked like Aziraphale’s. Comfortable, with cushioned chairs and warm light. She smiled as the pair of them stepped inside. “Hello.” 

“Ah, yes, hello, hi.” Aziraphale said, nearly tripping over her rug as he pushed in beside Crowley. 

“It’s been too long since I’ve had a chance to speak to you both.” She said, grinning a bit. “Please sit, I trust your semesters are going well?” Crowley sat down, quirking an eyebrow at her, Aziraphale nodded in thanks first, before sitting in the chair on Crowley’s left.

“Very well, oh yes, very well, we’ve been having a fantastic semester isn’t that right, dea-uh-Dr. Crowley.” Crowley grunted in agreement, fighting the urge to drape a leg over the arm of the chair. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. 

“Glad to hear it.” She said, “I believe you wanted to speak with me? I’m heading to a fundraiser in just a few minutes, but I have a spare moment.” She looked at them seriously. “Is everything alright?” Aziraphale looked at Crowley, and Crowley just gestured for him to continue.

“Right, well, the thing is.” He began, putting his hands in his jacket pockets, taking them out again, and putting them back as he spoke. “The thing is that we, that is to say, Dr. Crowley and I, well we’re involved.” He said, nodding as if to add an air of finality to it. El just looked at them.

“Yes.” She said, simply. 

“Romantically.” Aziraphale qualified. El just looked at him. “He,” he gestured to Crowley, “and I,” indicated himself “are romantically involved.” 

“Yes.” El repeated, and her eyebrows rose just a bit, the beginnings of a smile crinkling around her eyes. 

“We’re-well we just thought you ought to be aware.” Aziraphale said, looking thoroughly lost.

“I’m confused.” El admitted.

“You and me both.” Crowley added, and Aziraphale nudged him with his elbow. 

“This isn’t news to me.” El clarified. “You two have been together for years.” El watched as the pair of them looked at each other, eyes wide, then back at her.

“No, no, that’s, this is definitely new.” Aziraphale insisted. 

“Gentlemen, the entire department has been working under the assumption that the two of you got together ten years ago.” El was definitely fighting back a laugh, now. “You mean to tell me you only just got together?” Both of their mouths were hanging open, and honestly El was more than a little amused now.

“So-” Aziraphale shook his head a bit. “So this isn’t a problem.” 

“Is that what this is about? Obviously not. Do what you like.” She said, and Crowley could have sworn he saw her wink. 

“Well. Good, then. Yes, yes very good-well that’s-that’s frankly marvelous isn’t-” Crowley cut him off.

“Thank you, we’ll be off.” El chuckled, and nodded.

Crowley grabbed Aziraphale’s sleeve and half led-half dragged him out into the hallway, shutting El’s door behind them, and tugged him into the stairwell. They took a beat, looking at each other for a moment, before they both dissolved into a fit of uncontrollable laughter. Crowley leaned on Aziraphale’s shoulder for support as he laughed, deep and uncontainable, and Aziraphale held onto his elbow as he laughed, throaty and relieved. Crowley took a deep breath.

“Was I really so obvious?” He wondered, still laughing.

“Was I really so oblivious?” Aziraphale wondered in tandem. They looked at each other again, answering in unison.

“Yes.” Before devolving into laughter once again.


	24. Probably Explode

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What's up y'all second to last chapter!!!! More Jewish Good Omens to come because I'm not done writing about shul yet. Let me know what you think and we'll have a delightfully sappy chapter to wrap us up very very soon!!! Fun fact when I was trying to leave my torah study last shabbat a zeydah kept stopping me because we were having an excellent conversation about ki titsei and tbh I was so utterly thrilled.  
> Yell at me over at isoundmybarbaricyawp on tumblr, and please do let me know what you think!!!

Aziraphale was, in no uncertain terms, rather insatiable. In every regard. Crowley liked to cook him dinner. He was always so impressed and it felt like the keenest satisfaction to create something for Aziraphale and watch him finish it. Aziraphale liked to drink wine, and he liked to talk, extensively, about how the wine improved after your second glass. Mostly, these days, though, Aziraphale indulged in Crowley. 

He couldn’t get enough. He’d never quite had a lover like him. His whines, his moans, his whimpers under Aziraphale’s careful ministrations. Aziraphale devoured them. Crowley was always so ready to give, such a generous and caring lover, ready to provide Aziraphale with anything he asked for. It was, in a word, delightful. Soon, however, their breathless nights led to breathless mornings. And Aziraphale found that he had yet more to indulge in. Crowley, at the sink in his flat, brushing his teeth, not even glancing in the mirror. Crowley, padding around in his boxers and ridiculous socks as he got dressed for the day. Crowley, pliant and malleable from sleep, fluttering his eyes as he smelled the coffee Aziraphale brought to him in bed. Crowley, reading in his armchair. Crowley, taking care to stomp on the leaves that littered the sidewalks in town with his stylish black shoes to hear the crunching sound as he walked. 

It was addictive, and Aziraphale could admit he hadn’t quite expected this at the start. He loved Crowley, he’d told him as much, but it surprised him how he craved him. He found he rather liked it.

Crowley, who had spent ten years craving, ten years waiting and wanting and reaching, was more accustomed to this concept. He knew how he loved Aziraphale. He just felt so lucky to be able to finally, finally, reach out to him, and know it wouldn’t be rejected. He’d never felt so lucky in his life. Aziraphale woke before him, and he found himself reaching out to him as Aziraphale tried to sneak out of bed to head down to brew coffee and tea. A leg and an arm, thrown over Aziraphale in protest. Aziraphale, chuckling, the low rumble in his chest echoing in Crowley’s heart. A kiss, on his temple, and a promise of return. At shul, Crowley would hook his pinky with Aziraphale’s during the sermon, listening to the rabbi speak as they sat, intertwined in this simple way. A brush of his hand over Aziraphale’s shoulder as he passed him in the kitchen. And the endless touching touching touching in the evenings, making Crowley feel like he was certainly the only person in the entire world, an overwhelming and addictive concept, all in one. 

Aziraphale stayed the night at Crowley’s flat after shul one evening, and Crowley had to admit, it was more peaceful with him there. 

“Do you know, dearest-” Aziraphale began, stirring his tea as he sat, propped up, in bed next to Crowley. Crowley had picked up a box of Aziraphale’s favorite tea to have, just in case, when Aziraphale had first asked him out on A Date. Crowley looked at him, curled around his coffee mug.

“Mmm?” 

“I find I simply cannot get enough of you.” Crowley’s ears went pink.

“You’ll get sick of me soon enough, angel.” Aziraphale tutted.

“None of that, now.” He said, firm enough to get Crowley’s attention. Crowley raised his eyebrows.

“Sorry, sorry.” He grimaced a bit, Aziraphale didn’t much like how Crowley spoke about himself. He tried to remind him as often as possible.

Several weeks ago, Crowley had made a self deprecating joke, and had laughed it off, expecting Aziraphale to do the same. Aziraphale had paused, and scrutinized him. Crowley shifted uncomfortably under the examination.

“Really, Anthony.” Aziraphale had said, narrowing his eyes. “You always defend history by saying that you’re not someone who devotes his time to boring things. Look at me, dear boy.” Crowley did. “Do I look like someone who would spend time with anyone who was less than lovely?” Crowley shook his head. “Then that’s quite enough of that for now, thank you.” Crowley had kissed him, then, hadn’t been able to think of anything else to do. It made him feel like he was flayed open, when Aziraphale spoke to him like that. Like every secret or every hated thing about himself was in the open, but that Aziraphale had already accepted them, treasured them even. 

That Saturday morning, however, Aziraphale was thoughtful. He looked at Crowley, as Crowley tried to busy himself with his coffee. He felt grateful that Aziraphale was here, and had turned on the lamp for him. It made his morning far simpler. 

“Dearest.” Aziraphale began again, and Crowley sighed, looking at him fondly.

“Something on your mind, angel?” He asked, and Aziraphale’s fingers fluttered on his mug, tapping along it lightly. A seed of anxiety fell in Crowley’s gut, he tried not to let it take root.

“Well, yes.” He admitted. “Dear, would you mind if we had a chat?” Crowley felt as though he’d just been doused with freezing water. He set his, now mournfully empty, coffee cup down on the bedside table, and shot his legs out from under the covers. 

“Course. Course, we can chat anytime, we’re chatting now, see?” He said, standing and moving towards the closet. “Only, Zira, if this is to be a long chat, perhaps it might wait until after Torah study?” He suggested, might as well put this off as much as he could. “Only we’re discussing psalms today and I simply can’t miss it, what would Rabbi Dov think of me?” He was babbling. 

“Anthony.” Aziraphale said, and Crowley turned, shirt half buttoned, back towards Aziraphale. He was looking a little bewildered, and Crowley gulped. “Of course, after Torah study. Would you like me to drive you?” Crowley just shook his head. 

“No, no that’s alright, it’s so nice out.” Somewhere, overhead, thunder rumbled. Crowley cursed the Almighty, would have done quite a rude hand gesture in the vague direction of the sky had it not been Shabbat. 

“Are you sure?” Aziraphale asked, and it sounded like he was stifling a chuckle.

“Quite sure.”Crowley threw on a pair of trousers, slipped on his sneakers, and paused only to kiss Aziraphale, trying to relish it as much as possible, before running out of the door.

It was already raining, and Crowley, pursuing chaos as often as possible, did not believe in umbrellas. He also did not believe in rushing, unless he was in his Bentley, so he strolled in the pouring rain to shul, said his hello to William, and squeaked into the Oneg Room, sitting and dripping in his normal chair. Mrs. Snyder filled in next to him.  
“You look like a right mess.” She said, putting a cup of tea and a cookie in front of him.

“Aziraphale is going to break up with me.” He said, staring straight in front of him, ignoring the food.

“You’ve been saying that for weeks now.” She said, soothingly. “The good doctor wouldn’t dream of it.” She picked up the cookie, and when Crowley opened his mouth to protest, shoved it in his mouth. “Quiet down. You’re too hard on yourself, let something good happen, it won’t kill you.”

“He says he wants to chat.” He said, mouthful of chocolate chip cookie. 

“Don’t talk with your mouth full.” Mrs. Snyder scolded. Luckily for Crowley, he avoided a lecture as the Rabbi arrived, though he’d be lying if he said he didn’t dilly dally around after the discussion of Psalms had concluded. He stood next to Mr. Irving, discussing Ki Tavo together, though that Torah portion had been read several weeks previously, until Mrs. Snyder caught his eye from across the room. She pointed to the door, and he made his excuses, said he goodbyes, and left. 

It was, of course, still raining as he walked home. Suitable, he thought, feeling rather sorry for himself. He only dragged his feet a little as he approached his apartment, but took a moment to collect himself, rain pattering on his head, his hair thoroughly soaked, before resigning himself to the inevitable and opening the door. There was a towel waiting for him on the coat rack. He grabbed it, it was warm, as if it had just come out of the dryer. He toed off his shoes and socks, and toweled off his hair, wrapping the towel around his shoulders. He entered the kitchen, Aziraphale was at the stove, in Crowley’s apron, making eggs. 

“Breakfast will be ready in a minute, why don’t you go get changed?” Aziraphale suggested, cracking an egg into the pan. Crowley just nodded, heading to his room and returning with one of his favorite Shabbat outfits, sweatpants and a dreadfully old orange t-shirt. He threw on his fuzziest socks and returned, clearing his throat when he entered the kitchen. Aziraphale turned towards him, overflowing with fondness. Crowley looked soft, and Aziraphale was so utterly enamoured. He set down two plates at the kitchen table, and gestured for Crowley to sit. Crowley looked at the stove, then back at his seat, then back to the stove.

“I ought to wash that.” He said, without much conviction.

“Leave it for now, we can wash up in a bit.” And dare Crowley hope? The simple plural pronoun gave him a flicker of it, deep in his chest. He nodded, and sat down. 

“So you...you wanted to chat?” He said, breaking the yolk and picking up his toast. Aziraphale was excellent at breakfast. 

“Well, yes, dear.” Aziraphale clarified. “Though I’d like to ask why on earth you were so quick to get out of dodge this morning.” He scrutinized him, spearing a piece of scambled egg and taking a bite. He hummed around it, clearly pleased.

“Well, I just. Chats are rarely good, right? I just figured, something was probably wrong.” He admitted, suddenly finding his fork dreadfully interesting. He fixed his eyes upon it.   
“Dear, if something is wrong, I will actually tell you.” Aziraphale reminded him. And Crowley just nodded, his anxiety easing somewhat. “I was just thinking, and it’s alright if you don’t think this is a good idea, Anthony.” Crowley’s eyes snapped up to meet Aziraphale’s at the mention of his name. “I know it’s early.” His heart was hammering. What on earth. What was Aziraphale getting at. “But I was rather wondering if you wouldn’t like to move in.” Crowley, was caught unawares, and his toast, which had been halfway to his mouth, clattered back down to his plate as he dropped it in surprise.

“What?” He asked, more to hear Aziraphale say it again than because he actually needed clarification.

“Well, I was wondering if you’d like to move in with me, into my home.” Aziraphale asked. 

“Why?!” 

“Honestly, dear if you don’t want to you can just tell me.” Aziraphale sighed, looking at him. Crowley surveyed him. He was wearing one of Crowley’s sweaters. It made his heart clench.

“I didn’t say that, just, just, why?” He asked again, and Aziraphale softened.

“Honey.” He said, and all of Crowley’s worries seemed melt away from him. He felt the tension ease out of his shoulders and neck. Aziraphale reached out, grasping his free hand, and Crowley relaxed still more. “I’ve already said, I cannot get enough of you. I will never get enough of you, even if we’re together for 6,000 years.” He confessed, bringing Crowley’s knuckles to his lips and kissed them softly. “We haven’t spent a night apart in ages. And you love my home.” He pointed out. “If you’re not ready, I’ll understand-”

“No!” Crowley insisted. “Let’s do it. Let’s start tomorrow, we’ll have to use your sedan, the Bentley doesn’t have a lot of trunk space. Do you have room in your library? I’ve got more books than I know what to do with.” He was smiling now, giddily, that type of smile that he seemed to reserve for Aziraphale, his delighted smile, his honest smile. 

“We’ll make room.” Aziraphale assured him, and tugged him by the collar to kiss him.


	25. Of The Rest Of Their Lives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That's it, y'all. I really really really hope you enjoyed. Thank you from the very bottom of my heart for your enthusiasm and joy and excitement when it came to this fic. I'm so glad you liked it and so glad you stuck with it. So glad I stuck with it too!!! Please do, as always, let me know your thoughts! Yell at me over at isoundmybarbaricyawp. Send me jewish omens prompts. Send me ANY prompts literally. I adore you all.

Aziraphale stretched his arms over his head, elbows cracking. He sat up, leaning against the headboard. His bedroom was warm, he kept his whole house warm, these days. As he did every morning, he attempted to sneak out of bed. He had one foot out of the covers when hands reached out to grasp his sleep shirt. He turned to Crowley.  
“I’m going to make your coffee, my love.” He said, leaning down to kiss Crowley on the temple. Crowley groaned. 

“Five more minutes, angel, you’re early.” His voice was muffled, half by sleep and half by the pillow. Aziraphale softened. It was Friday, after all. 

“Five more, then.” He agreed, relaxing back onto his pillow. Crowley threw a leg over him, nuzzling his face into Aziraphale’s chest. Aziraphale slept in what Crowley liked to call “pajama outfits,” stuffy, even in sleep. Crowley slept in his boxers, haphazardly throwing on a robe when it was time to move around the house. 

Their house.

Their life. 

Their lives, as different as the two of them might have been, folded and twined together better than Aziraphale could have ever dreamed. Crowley’s plants made his home look more homely, more comfortable, than it already had. His books were scattered throughout Aziraphale’s, mucking up his order, his system. Crowley delighted in finding a book, sitting down to read it, and replacing it somewhere totally different. Aziraphale read to him in the evenings.

“What would you like to hear, dear boy?” He would ask, and Crowley would grin, giddy, like he couldn’t believe his luck. 

“Let’s do The Hobbit.” He’d say, or “How about some Tennyson, angel?” And Aziraphale would get up, and go to the appropriate bookshelf only to find it conspicuously missing. He’d turn, and Crowley would be grinning. 

“Very well, you old serpent, where have you hidden it?” He’d demand, putting on a show of feeling very put out.

“I haven’t hidden anything, angel, not certain what you mean.” Crowley would flippantly reply, and Aziraphale would have to think back to what Crowley had been reading last week, where he’d pulled it from, and would go searching, inevitably coming up triumphant before long. “Ah, yes, I suppose that I may have misplaced that there.” Crowley would admit, as Aziraphale returned to the sofa, and Aziraphale might chide him.

“Really, Anthony, I have a system for a reason.” He would remark, but before long Crowley’s head would be in Aziraphale’s lap, and Aziraphale’s free hand would be in Crowley’s hair as he read, and Crowley would pipe up every now and again, lending his feedback on the author’s intent, and if Aziraphale was feeling particularly snarky, he’d tug on his tresses when he did this, and when he wasn’t, he’d lean down to kiss him. 

Fridays, as Crowley so often told him, were a time for reflection. They’d lived together a year, their lives molding around each other seamlessly, like they’d just been waiting for the other to give the go ahead. And Aziraphale couldn’t deny, it was utter bliss. 

After 7 minutes, he disentangled himself from Crowley, who groaned in protest again, and left the warmth of the bed, slipping on his slippers and padding down to the kitchen. He poured the coffee, added the two sugars, as always, and set his own tea to brew before returning upstairs. Crowley, who knew the drill quite well by now, was sat up in bed, his glasses back on his face, and he stared, enraptured, at Aziraphale when he walked in the door. Aziraphale passed him his coffee cup.

“I love you, angel.” He said, in lieu of thank you, and curled himself around it.

“And I you, dearest.” Aziraphale said easily. He scooted back onto the bed. 

“Do you know, Zira, one of my students told me their roommate had a dreadful habit of walking about in the nude.” Crowley informed him, and Aziraphale looked aghast. “They tell me all sorts of dirt, my students, can’t stop talking about it, won’t ever stop, just nonstop dirt.” He opened his mouth, evidently intending to continue rambling. Aziraphale raised an eyebrow at him, and Crowley’s mouth snapped shut.

“Have you got something to tell me, love?” He asked, gently, reaching over and intertwining the hands that were not currently gripping to mugs for dear life. Crowley took a deep steadying breath. “Oh, my dear, is everything alright?” He inquired, squeezing gently. Crowley nodded.

“I just love you, angel.” He told him, grinning a bit as he looked towards him. Aziraphale grinned.

“I think you’ve said that before, sweet.” He said, wrinkling his nose a bit.

“Well, it’s only that…” Crowley cut himself off, taking another breath.

“Tell me, dearest.” Aziraphale insisted, feeling the warmth spread from his chest all over his body. He loved Crowley so desperately.

“I was wondering if, perhaps, you’d like to marry me.” Crowley asked, ever so politely. Aziraphale’s neck cracked as he turned towards him too quickly. Crowley had, evidently, been concealing a ring in his palm, that he presented to Aziraphale. Aziraphale looked at him, at the ring, and dissolved into a fit of laughter. 

“Honestly, there’s no need for all that.” Crowley insisted, but Aziraphale just held up a finger, getting back out of bed and setting his coffee mug down. He crossed the bedroom to the closet, and took out the coat he’d been set to wear to shul that evening, and rummaged around in the pockets. He returned to bed, bearing a small black box. He presented it to Crowley who, now understanding the joke, joined Aziraphale in the helpless laughter. 

“Beat me to it only by a few hours, love.” Aziraphale tells him, catching his breath. “My dear I’m certain there’s nothing I would rather be than your husband.” Crowley felt like his cheeks were going to burst, his chest swelled, and he could have sworn he heard an orchestra playing. They exchanged rings, Crowley slipped the plain, silver band onto his thin finger, before sliding Aziraphale’s on. He’d found it at a vintage shop, that he’d only visited because he’d been with Aziraphale and he’d insisted. He’d had to sneak out of the house the following weekend to return. A wreathe, and a shield, he hadn’t known why it’d had looked so perfect, but judging by Aziraphale’s reaction, he’d gotten it right on the money. He fawned and oohed. 

“It’s beautiful, dear boy.” Aziraphale told him.

“Perfect for you, then.” They kissed, and found they couldn’t quite stop, and very soon Crowley’s glasses were back off, lying on the bedside table as he mewled under Aziraphale.  
“Cancel your class today.” Aziraphale whispered, his hot voice in Crowley’s ear sent shivers down his spine. 

“Obviously.” He replied, as they pressed together again. 

Aziraphale took Crowley by the hand that evening as they entered shul together.

“William!” He exclaimed, offering his fist. William bumped it. “Have you heard, my fiance is here!” He pulled Crowley along, as Crowley laughed good naturedly behind Aziraphale. He spent the evening showing Crowley off to everyone at shul. Mrs. Snyder, who offered an “about time” which made Crowley blush, to Mr. Goldstein, who replied with a hearty “mazel tov, Ezra.” Crowley tried to act put upon, but couldn’t seem to quite contain his giddy smile. At the oneg, Mrs. Snyder pulled them aside. 

“So, how did this finally happen?” She asked, holding both of their hands in her own. 

“Well, my dear Anthony asked me this morning, when I was planning all along to ask him this evening.” Aziraphale shared, and Crowley rolled his eyes, still grinning like an idiot.  
“Oh how lovely, darling.” Mrs. Snyder said, approvingly.

“And then I had him cancel his classes and we spent all day in bed.” Aziraphale reported proudly. 

“Zira!” Crowley exclaimed, his face going as red as his hair. Mrs. Snyder didn’t seem phased.

“Very well, very well.” She said, kissing them both before tottering away. 

On Monday morning, after their usual coffee, Crowley was off to teach his first class of the day. Aziraphale was meandering around his office, when he noticed Crowley’s notebook lying underneath his usual chair. He seized it, feeling rather panicked, Crowley usually referenced his notes when he was lecturing. He was out the door in seconds, hurtling down the stairs and through the busy campus until he reached the building where Crowley had his class. He raced through the hall, and burst into the small classroom.

“So, we have this shift from fractured nation states to a proper-” He cut himself off, looking at Aziraphale as he stood in the doorway. A smile lit up Crowley’s face immediately. “Oh.” 

“Sorry to interrupt.” Aziraphale apologized, waving the notebook. “You left your notes in my office.”

“Ah, thank you, thank you.” Crowley replied, accepting the notebook graciously. “I was wondering about that.” He looked at his class, nearly everyone had their eyebrows raised  
“Have you all met my ex-boyfriend, Aziraphale Will? Anyone taking him for Shakespeare courses?” Their eyes went as wide as saucers.

“Honestly, dear boy, stop telling people that.” Aziraphale insisted. “I’m his fiance.” Their eyes went, impossibly, wider. 

“Same difference.” He replied, and Aziraphale smiled at him, leaning up on tip toes to kiss his cheek before exiting the classroom again. He paused before he was out of earshot

“Now, back to our national endeavors.” Crowley began again, but was quickly interrupted.

“No, no, no, hang on!” Insisted one of his students, Aziraphale chuckled as he retreated back down the hallway. 

Their days passed peacefully. Reading, and laughing, and drinking. Looking endlessly forward to the smash of a wine glass beneath Crowley’s heel, to being lifted up on chairs as their loved ones danced, to a honeymoon “perhaps in Scotland, dear?” Aziraphale would suggest, and Crowley would reply “anywhere with you, angel.” They looked forward and forward and forward, to endless mugs of coffee, endless drives while blasting Queen, to endless arguments over Shakespeare, endless glasses of wine over dinner, endless time together. It was all Crowley had ever wanted, all Aziraphale had ever dreamed of. They had all the time in the world, all of the first days of the rest of their lives, and they were certainly going to make the most of them.


End file.
